A&A&A Boarding School
by Laiqualaurelote
Summary: 45 characters from 7 different books or movies attend A&A&A Boarding School together. How will Legolas fare in chemistry, Achilles in sewing and Artemis Fowl in PE? Will they survive the week despite teachers, classroom enmity and the Phantom of the Opera
1. First day of school

**A&A&A Boarding School**

Authoresses' Note: This fanfiction was co-written by the sisters Lydia and Rukuelle Mendiant and painstakingly typed out by Lydia. It is to be said that the credit is to be divided equally between both sisters. Neither owns any of the characters, and their only original creation is the School and the Story. Neither of them likes lawyers much, either.

Lydia would like to mention that this is a very large crossover, and hence people with bad memories or short impatience should beware (e.g. the sisters' parents, as in relevance to the latter point). Rukuelle would like to add that how the characters got enrolled in this boarding school is a mystery, and the puzzle as to how some of them know each other and some of them don't is deeper than either of the sisters care to explain. Lastly, both wish all readers a hopefully fun experience.

WARNING: This is the last warning that this will be a massive crossover. Hence, people who dislike crossovers of this size and confusion, should leave immediately. The sisters are not responsible for any loss of understanding, temper or sanity in the further chapters.

**First day of school**

The gates of Academics & Arts & Arms Boarding School were thrown open, and a living mass of students streamed in, across the front court, through the double doors, up the winding stair to the reception area.

One of the new students, Frodo Baggins, was caught up in the surging mass and hustled along, with his three hobbit friends Samwise Gamgee, Meriadoc Brandybuck and Peregrin Took. It was all he could do to drag his oversized luggage after him. Beside him, Pippin panted, sweat streaming down his face, as he lugged his own suitcase up the winding stair.

Just as they reached the top, Pippin tripped over the last step. He attempted to regain his balance, but his luggage was thrown into the air. Pippin let go in haste. The luggage landed on the steps. Pippin was not so lucky. He fell over the banisters.

"Pippin!" yelled Merry, and managed to grab his friend's hand just as Pippin went over. Unfortunately, he was jostled by a large crowd of French-spouting boys and tumbled over as well. Frodo snatched at Merry and joined his two friends at the bottom of the line dangling over the long drop down the middle of the winding stair.

Sam sighed. It was up to him to save them. He anchored himself and grabbed Pippin. With much huffing and puffing, he managed to get Pippin's arms around the banister, but his own strength was not enough to pull all three up.

"Frodo," panted Merry. "Climb over me."

"What? Climb? Okay." Praying that he wouldn't lose his hold, Frodo swung an arm up and grabbed at a handhold. Merry let out a yelp. "Ow! My ear!"

"Sorry." Frodo moved his hold to Merry's shoulder. Bit by bit, he managed to clamber over Merry and Pippin and hoist himself over the banisters. "You next, Merry."

Merry struggled to the top, interrupted constantly by Pippin's little shrieks of discomfort as he was jabbed in the face. At last, he too crossed to the safer side of the stairs and all three pulled Pippin up. Carefully, and away from the banisters, the four hobbits inched up the steps. They encountered Gimli, puffing away with the same problem of too heavy luggage.

"Need help?" asked Frodo tentatively.

Gimli shook his head vigorously. "Help yourself," he grunted.

Sam looked over the heads of the crowd (no mean feat, for one of his height) and saw another undersized individual. This short person, however, had apparently no trouble with his luggage. As he sauntered along, he saw Sam staring and waved. Sam and Gimli released their luggage for a moment to wave back. Then their distant acquaintance was swept along with the flow and disappeared.

Further on down the hall to the reception area, Legolas the elf flicked his long blonde hair over his shoulder. It was a pity, he reflected, that he had been unable to do up his hair in a French braid that morning, but he had woken up late. He had had to settle for a ponytail for his first day at this school, but he could always do his hair tomorrow, or the day after. He had his entire collection of hair gel packed neatly into his suitcase.

While he was thinking, Legolas failed to watch where he was going, and tripped over a valise before him. Legolas and his suitcases went flying. Infuriated, Legolas picked himself up. A quick check told him that one of the hair gel bottles was leaking. He turned upon the owner of the valise, a small personage who had dragged her own valise upright and was glaring at him. "How -- how dare you!" he spluttered. "How dare you get in my way!"

Petite fingers brushed a strand of auburn fringe out of hazel eyes. "As you can see," replied the diminutive cause of his anger smoothly, "it was purely an accident. You should have watched where you yourself were going."

Legolas curled his fingers into a fist. The girl caught that action and made a fist out of her own hand. "Bet you don't really dare fight me," snickered the elf.

"Just give me a reason," retorted the girl. A crowd had begun to gather, people abandoning their luggage in favour of this new interest.

"Like what? I'm taller than you, you..." Legolas paused to give the word full emphasis, "_midget_."

The girl's chin went up. Something about it made his confidence waver slightly. His opponent drew her fist back. "That was a good reason."

And before Legolas knew what was happening, she had landed a hard punch in his stomach.

Legolas stumbled backwards, but the girl wasn't finished yet. With a spinning kick, her foot connected with his ribs, slamming him against the wall. She punched him in the nose, and another kick laid him out on the ground. She placed one booted foot on his chest and drew back a fist for another blow.

"Break it up, break it up!" The crowd parted to let a tall bearded old man with a blue hat and a gnarled staff through. By his side strode a short little man, whose face was a full-bloodied red. "You!" barked the short man, pointing at the girl. "Get off him!"

The girl removed her foot, an innocent look upon her face. "He started it."

The man ignored her statement. "Get up," he barked at Legolas. At the girl he snarled, "Name, cadet?"

"Holly Short, sir."

"What is the reason for this -- violence?"

"He called me a midget, sir."

A noise which might have been an outcry came from Legolas. A glare from the man silenced him.

"I'll have you know that -- " began the little man, but he was interrupted by the bearded man. "Commander Root. As it is the beginning of term, perhaps we should just let it go."

Commander Root seemed to be struggling with emotions. Eventually he barked at Holly, "Very well. I'll let you off this once. But," he warned as Holly bent to pick up her luggage, "I've got my eye on you, cadet." And he turned on his heel and strode off, followed by the old man.

Holly shot the prostrated Legolas a withering glare and made for the reception area. The crowd parted to let her through, edging away. Holly could not resist a slight grin as she was the first to queue up at the reception desk. First day of school and you've got a reputation. Great going, girl.

* * *

Harry, Ron and Hermione were still in awe about the incident in the hall. "That's one I wouldn't want to cross," muttered Ron to Harry and Hermione as they joined the queue at the reception desk.

"Name?" asked the woman at the desk. She was elderly, with a stern face and thin lips. She looked down her long nose at Hermione. That was one you wouldn't want to cross either.

"Hermione Granger."

The woman ran her finger down a list and checked against a name on it. She handed Hermione a set of keys. "Girls' dormitories on the right. Those are your locker keys. You have Bed 5."

Hermione nodded, a slight expression of apprehension on her face as she took the keys. With a farewell glance at Harry and Ron, she pulled her trunk off down the right corridor.

The first person she saw in the dormitory was Holly Short. Holly had taken Bed 1 and was lying on it staring at the ceiling, boots kicked off. Hermione paused by her bed. "Hi," she said uncertainly.

"Hi," replied Holly, not taking her eyes off the ceiling.

"I'm Hermione Granger. You're Holly Short, aren't you?"

"I am."

"Erm, yeah. See you later." Hermione scuttled off to Bed 5, where she settled her trunk and began unpacking. At the same time, she observed her dormitory-mates.

On her right was a blonde girl of around the same height as Holly. She was chattering away on a mobile phone clutched to her pointy ear. "And you know, this place is, like, so crowded, and all these, like, weird people, and just now in the hall, that girl, you know, Holly Short, from my kindergarten? She, like, _beat up_ a boy in the hall just now! I mean, that's like, so un-feminine!"

"I heard that, Lili," growled Holly from Bed 1.

The blonde replied with an indignant glare and lowered her voice. Hermione turned her attention to Bed 6 on her left and caught her breath inadvertently. This girl was _gorgeous_. Hair like shadowed silk, skin pure as fresh white cream, eyes a stunning silver-grey, clear twin lakes you could fall into, now dreamy and lost somewhere in longing thought. Hermione was swamped with a mixture of admiration and envy.

Her beautiful dorm-mate turned to her, tucking a stray wisp of dark hair behind one pointy ear with a delicate finger. "Greetings," she spoke. Her voice was a husky melody.

"Hi," said Hermione, unsure of what else to say to this unearthly angel. "Um. I'm Hermione Granger. Pleased to meet you."

"I am Arwen Undómiel." Perfect lips curved into an enchanting smile. Then Arwen sighed. "Do you know him? The one with the grey eyes in the hall just now?"

"Who?"

"Him. He had dark hair, shoulder-length dark hair, and such charming eyes. And a wonderful smile." She sighed romantically. "Do you know his name?"

"No," said Hermione. "Sorry about that."

Arwen sighed dreamily again and turned away. Hermione sat back on her bed and appraised her situation. Stuck between a talkative bimbo and a pensive romantic. Oh, well.

* * *

"Name?" asked the woman at the desk.

"Harry Potter."

"You get Bed 11. Your keys. Name?"

"Ronald Weasley."

Check. "Bed 12. Boys' dormitories on the left."

Harry and Ron headed down the left corridor and entered their dormitory. It was already occupied by some other early birds. The one who had been beaten up in the hall -- Legolas, apparently -- was at Bed 2, attempting to keep his remaining shreds of dignity together. Harry pushed his trunk beside Bed 11 and bent down to try out his locker keys.

Ron wasn't. Harry looked up and saw him staring at the owner of Bed 13, who had just arrived.

"Malfoy," breathed Ron, nostrils flaring.

Draco Malfoy gave a derisive sneer. "Hello there, Weasley. I see you're enjoying the comfort of your bed. A lot better than what you get at home, eh?"

Ron looked explosive. Harry leapt up in case he did explode. "You shut up, Malfoy," he rejoined angrily.

Malfoy smirked back. "This place is so unrefined," he complained. "If my father knew...excuse me. You're blocking my trunk."

There was no answer. Malfoy grew impatient. "Are you deaf? I told you, you're blocking my trunk!"

Harry craned over Ron's shoulder to see what was happening. True enough, a pair of high black boots were in the way of Malfoy's trunk. Their owner, the occupant of Bed 14, wore no expression. Actually, his black wide-brimmed hat covered more than half his face, rendering his facial expression unseen. Harry squinted to read the name on this stranger's trunk. Gabriel Van Helsing.

Gabriel Van Helsing raised his hat slightly, so that his eyes were visible. "Move your trunk to the other side," he replied curtly, and released his hat so that it obscured his face once more.

Malfoy considered this new development. His dignity was the price here; this person, however, did not look safe to offend. In the end, he gave in and shifted his trunk to the other side of Bed 13. Gabriel Van Helsing gave no sign of noticing.

Harry looked around. On his right, at Bed 10, a pale raven-haired boy appeared to be meditating cross-legged on the bed. Harry leaned forward slightly, curious to see if he was really meditating.

Blue eyes shot open. "It's rude to stare," said the boy coolly.

"Sorry." Harry sat back on his own bed. "I'm Harry Potter. Who're you?"

"I am Artemis Fowl the Second." The boy sounded bored. "Now if you please, I should like to be left alone." He shut his eyes and ignored Harry absolutely.

"Stuck-up," muttered Harry under his breath. "Artemis? I thought that was a girl's name. How weird."

Across the aisle, a newcomer plonked himself down on Bed 25. Flicking a mane of tangled yellow hair over his muscled shoulder, he removed a sword from his luggage and placed it under his pillow.

At Bed 24, another newcomer was also in the act of placing a sword under his pillow. The owner of Bed 25 looked up with interest. "Hey," he said. "You got a sword too?"

"I should think it was obvious." The other did not seem very interested; his mind appeared to be somewhere far away. Suddenly he said, "Achilles. Do you know that girl in the hall just now? The dark-haired girl that was really, _really_ beautiful?"

"Got your eye on her, eh?" laughed Achilles. "No, I don't know a damn thing about her. Good luck with your search, though, Ar."

"My name is Aragorn son of Arathorn. And I do not appreciate nicknames."

Achilles held up his hands. "Chill, man. No need to get so worked up."

They were interrupted by a snore from Bed 23. Someone who looked a little too old for a first-year (although that could have been due to his braided moustache) was spread-eagled on the bed, fast asleep and snoring loudly. A triangular piratical hat was jammed on his head. He hadn't even got around to taking his boots off.

At the end of the dormitory, a group of French boys burst into loud and raucous song. "Red! The blood of angry men!"

The sleeper opened one eye, shoved his hat over his ears and went back to sleep.

Aragorn turned back to Achilles, but the dinner bell cut through all other noises. "Ding -- dong -- ding -- dong , ding -- dong -- ding..."

"We get the message!" yelled Achilles at the ceiling.

"Dong!" finished the bell in a self-satisfied manner.

The sleeper at Bed 23 leapt up and looked around, slightly dazed. "Dinner? Oh, savvy." He adjusted his hat, smashed into Aragorn's bedpost, bounced off and reeled drunkenly out of the door.

Harry looked at Ron and shrugged. This was a weird dormitory.

**End of Chapter**

_Next chapter coming ... _**Stew and Social Matters**


	2. Stew and Social Matters

**A&A&A Boarding School**

Authoresses' Note: The Mendiant sisters would like to thank their three reviewers, I AM EOWYN, Celias23 and Fan of Fanfic for their encouraging and supportive reviews, all of which produced the desired warm fuzzy feeling. Lydia in particular expresses her gratitude to her old reviewer I AM EOWYN for taking interest in this new fanfiction and assures her that Éowyn will enter in this very chapter. Although Rukuelle is currently away watching television serials, Lydia thinks she will agree that they own nothing besides the School and the Story, and that they hope everyone will be quite happy with this new chapter and have fun guessing characters by their descriptions.

**2. Stew and Social Matters**

The students surged into the dining hall as the bell's peals grew silent. Already the long wooden tables (one per level) were beginning to fill up. A lady at the front was ladling stew out of a huge steaming urn into bowls.

The hobbits waited in line for their stew. It certainly smelled good. Frodo eyed it with glee as the lady poured a stream of it into his bowl. She was very tall, dressed in white with long golden hair and an eerie smile. Gimli hurriedly thanked her and they went to look for a place at the first-year table.

Soon after they had sat down, they were joined by the midget who had waved to them that morning, who plonked his bowl down next to Gimli's and climbed onto the bench after it. "Hey, folks."

"Hey," chorused Merry and Pippin. "We're Meriadoc and Peregrin, but you can call use Merry and Pippin. This here's our cousin's Frodo," Frodo winced as Merry slapped him on the back, "and that's Sam." Sam ducked Pippin's hand. "Oh yeah, and that's Gimli."

"The name's Diggums," answered their new acquaintance. "Mulch Diggums." He shook Gimli's hand solemnly. The hobbits had already started stuffing themselves. Mulch and Gimli also joined in, while discovering their love for a common subject – namely rocks – and started discussing it fervently.

Aragorn indifferently poked his spoon into the stew and lifted it. Brown liquid rained down on either side. The noise of a bowl hitting the table and the slop of stew told him that Achilles had found him. "So," Achilles began, "found your dream girl yet?"

"No," replied Aragorn expressionlessly.

Achilles shrugged and pointed his spoon over Aragorn's shoulder. "Now, that chick is hot. Got great eyes, she has."

Aragorn glanced in the direction of Achilles' spoon. Not as pretty as the one in the hall, he thought. No competition. "If you like her so much, then go after her."

"Good idea," exclaimed Achilles, and left.

Aragorn turned back to his stew just as someone sat down opposite him. "Hi."

He looked up into the sea-grey eyes of Arwen Undómiel. "Oh. Hello."

* * *

As Hermione carried her stew over to Harry and Ron's place, she passed Holly Short. Holly seemed to have found a new companion, a tall girl with shoulder length golden hair and a loud, almost boyish laugh. "...and I really think Gondor swords are the best, although nothing beats a Rohan spear. Don't you think?" 

"Personally," said Holly, "I prefer a good old blaster. Straightforward, no nonsense, no fancy sword moves. You ever had a gun, Éowyn?"

The girl shrugged. "I've never seen a gun. Perhaps I might change my mind when I do."

Hermione hurried on and sat down next to Ron. Ahead, Malfoy paused to make a snide comment. "Oh, I see your table's taken. No idea how people are going to _bear_ to sit down here, with a Mudblood like you."

Ron rose in his seat, but was squashed down by Hermione. Malfoy smirked and went off to look for somewhere else to sit. There was an empty space beside a group of six French boys, which he took.

"Bonsoir!" cried the leader of the French boys, a tall kid with an untidy mop of hair. "Welcome to our table, brother! Join the French Revolution and be a martyr of France!"

Malfoy hurriedly removed himself. He sat down next to two extremely small people.

"I don't like stew, Trubs."

"Shut up before I dunk your fat head in it."

Malfoy turned to them. "My, you're short, aren't you?"

What looked like the elder of the two turned to him, a murderous expression on his face. "Say that again."

Malfoy muttered some apology and left with his stew. People here were touchy, weren't they? If Father knew...

He passed Legolas on the way down the aisle.

Legolas, fashionably late as always, decided he had better put the embarassing incident of the front hall behind him and pick up some pals. Preferably female ones.

There was a girl standing in front of him in the food queue: a pretty, blonde girl in an old-fashioned dress, hair done up very elegantly. Legolas stuck his head round her shoulder. "Hello! Do I know you?"

"I know _you_," replied the girl. "You're the one who got beaten up in the front hall just now, aren't you?"

Legolas turned an unhealthy shade of red and excused himself, suitably embarassed. He collected his stew and hurriedly looked around for somewhere to sit.

There. Next to that drop-dead gorgeous girl. Legolas hastily sat down on her right, just as someone else sat down on her left. "Hi!" he and the other someone said to her simultaneously.

Legolas squinted. The other fellow was a guy almost as handsome as himself – _almost_, he repeated in his head. He was wearing some sort of weird Greek costume. Legolas glared at his rival, but they were both distracted by the musical, husky voice of the girl sitting between them.

"Hi," she murmured. "I'm Helen. Might I know your names?"

"Legolas."

"Paris."

Glare.

"How nice to meet you." Helen seemed rather lost in her own train of thought, without paying any real attention to either of them. Still, she _was _beautiful.

Someone else sat down opposite the three of them. "Hi," said this young man brightly. "I'm Will Turner."

Legolas and Paris both shot him glares that said: She's taken. Get lost. A message which Will Turner did not seem to take seriously, since he merely went on eating, looking up at them expectantly at intervals. Legolas was about to snub him further, if only to impress Helen, when yet a fourth individual appeared. This person had green skin, green wings, and had fairly alarming looks. He concentrated his attention and charm on Helen. "He-llo, babe."

Helen's reaction was not the desired one. "Oh, Lord," she exclaimed, hand on mouth, "is that your _skin_? It looks disgusting!"

"Yeah," adjoined Paris, "we don't want you here. So scram."

Chix Verbil considered whether to press the case, but eventually decided to find another girl who was not so – occupied.

There was a girl sitting alone at one of the tables further down the row, slouched over her bowl of stew. Chix flew over to her. "Hey!"

The girl raised her head. Short black curls framed a face that was, though somewhat pretty, decidedly grimy. "_Taisez-vous!_" she snapped. "Get away from me, you _crapaud_!"

Chix took the warning and got away accordingly.

As dinner drew to a close, the woman that had been at the reception checking lists stood up. She raised her drinking glass, picked up a spoon and tapped the glass with it to get the students' attention. Only those near the teachers' table seemed to have heard the faint chinking noise, however; and these mostly looked up, decided it was nothing much and went back to eating. The woman tapped it again commandingly, with no great response.

"If you'd let me, Professor," muttered Commander Root. He reached over, grabbed the glass, stood it on the table and then whacked with his own spoon so hard it shattered. All the students looked towards the source of noise as one, startled.

"Now that I have your attention!" bellowed Root. "Please be so kind as to give it to Professor McGonagall."

"Your methods certainly work," muttered the golden-haired lady who had been ladling stew, "but I wish you'd spare the glassware. It was hard to come by."

Root ignored her. Professor McGonagall, mouth drawn in a thinly disapproving line, rose majestically to her feet. "Welcome, all of you, to Academics, Arts and Arms Boarding School. I am Professor Minerva McGonagall, Head of the Department of Magic and Administrative Mistress of the school."

"I knew she wasn't a good one to cross," whispered Ron in Harry's ear.

"There are some things," continued Professor McGonagall, "namely rules, that the new first-years – and some of their more forgetful seniors – need to be informed of. Firstly, we do not condone physical injury anywhere outside Firearms or Martial Arts class, so all weapons, whether they be swords, guns or even knives, will be kept in the dormitory and are not to be used on _anyone_ at all times."

There was much tittering from the first-years. Several people seemed quite shocked at this rule. Aragorn looked indignant. Holly looked scandalized. Éowyn looked outraged. Achilles looked fairly murderous.

"Secondly," went on Professor McGonagall, overriding the protests, "no fighting is allowed in this school. News of a certain incident this afternoon have reached my ears, and believe me, although the culprits were let off that time, in future the punishment will be severe."

Root's eyes flicked automatically to Holly Short, who stared innocently at her stew bowl.

"Thirdly, you may not leave the school's premises without permission of the teachers, and then only on the weekends and school holidays. The breaking of any of the above rules will lead to detention. All teachers have the power to give detention and to choose the sort of detention it will be. I hope that is clear to all of you."

No one really answered that question, but there was no doubt that it was crystal clear in their minds. "Good," finished Professor McGonagall. "You may now leave to go to your dormitories and prepare for bed. Lights out at eleven p.m. sharp." She took her seat once more as people got up and began leaving the dining hall.

The boys and girls parted at the division of the first-year dormitories. "G'night," called Ron as he and Harry left Hermione. Behind them, Aragorn bid Arwen (whom he had got to know fairly well during dinner) a fond farewell. The French Revolution marched past, singing. Lili Frond hurried the other way, chattering into her mobile phone.

At exactly eleven p.m. sharp, the golden-haired lady emerged from the girls' dormitories and met the old man in the grey cloak, who had just come from the boys', in the main hall. "All checked, Gandalf?" she whispered.

"Yes," nodded the old wizard. "_Mára lóme_, Galadriel."

"_Mára lóme_," replied Galadriel softly, switching off the lights and disappearing into the darkness, a mere pale shade in her white gown. And there was silence in the corridor.

**End of Chapter**

_Next chapter coming..._**Chemistry and Catastrophe**


	3. Chemistry and Catastrophe

**A&A&A Boarding School**

Authoresses' Note: We are so happy with you reviewers, we have decided to talk to you in first person. Or first persons. We thank hidden darkness, Celias23, Kit Cloudkicker, Steelflame (whom we congratulate on being first to appreciate our careful engineering of the conjunction of the Orlando Blooms), Elen uur, Lydia's old skeptic reviewer Cerse (and Lydia is very glad he's no longer skeptical), and Lydia's dear classmates Manveri and Asha Ice (and we will never bow to the death-threats of Legolas fans. The cult of Legolas-hating shall live on!) Thank you all so much!

And as Kit Cloudkicker has suggested, now we shall include in our disclaimer a list of our 45 students, which might be useful. Uninterested people should skip.

Lord of the Rings: Aragorn, Arwen, Éowyn, Éomer, Faramir, Boromir, Legolas, Gimli, Frodo, Sam, Merry, Pippin, Haldir

Artemis Fowl: Artemis, Holly, Chix, Mulch, Trouble, Grub, Lili

Harry Potter: Harry, Ron, Hermione, Malfoy

Van Helsing: Van Helsing, Anna, Carl

Pirates of the Carribean: Captain Jack Sparrow, Will, Elizabeth

Troy: Paris, Hector, Helen, Briseis, Andromache, Achilles

Lés Miserables: Marius, Cosette, Eponine, Enjolras, Gavroche, Grantaire, Feuilly, Courfeyrac, Joly (we forgot about Combeferre until the last minute)

None of which belong to us. Now read.　

**3. Chemistry and Catastrophe**

On the morning of Monday, the entire boys' dormitory was aroused by a stirring chorus from near the dorm windows. The French boys were holding a morning hymn, conducted by their mop-haired leader. "One day to a new beginning! Raise the flag of freedom high! Every man will be a king! Every man will be a king!"

The birds outside the window were startled out of their poor fluffy minds. One fainted dead away on the windowsill. The rest took fright and flew away, to somewhere where people sang less and better.

Achilles threw his pillow at the conductor and hit him neatly in the back. "Shut up!" he roared. "Who are you idiots anyway?"

"We are Les Révolutionaires Français!" came the proud answer. "Dedicated to the lifelong quest of upholding the freedom of the French Republic! I am their chief, Enjolras. Will you take your place among us, brother?"

"Dream on," snapped Achilles, retrieving his pillow and marching out of the dormitory to wash up. The majority of the other boys decided too that the French Revolution was mental and kept their distance.

Aragorn was approaching the main staircase to the dining hall when he heard a familiar voice behind him. "Good morning, Aragorn. Did you sleep well?"

He spun. Arwen had come up behind him quietly, and now she stood, dark hair glinting in the pale morning light. "Of course," he heard himself say. "You look beautiful today, Arwen."

Neither of them heard a snicker from behind them. "How pathetic they look," murmured Haldir smugly in Boromir's ear. "And that is why I always have considered myself above the silly matters of crushes and romance."

"Indeed," muttered Boromir, hoping fervently for some distraction. "Oh, look, my brother!" Hastily he turned away from Haldir. "Faramir! Where were you? I lost you in the bathroom! Come here at once!"

The one he was speaking to bounced over. He resembled Boromir greatly in face, but certainly not in actions. "Yo!" he called to Haldir. "My name is Faramir! Whatcha call yourself, dude?"

"Erm, that's my brother," put in Boromir, looking rather resigned to such embarassment. "He's a little...well...insane..."

"Right you are, bro!" added Faramir.

"Nice to meet you," sniffed Haldir, and drifted off. Boromir glared at Faramir and dragged his hyper brother into the dining room for breakfast.

Aragorn, as he collected his porridge behind Arwen, noted that Achilles was trying to chat up the girl he had noticed yesterday at dinner. "So," went on Achilles to the girl, who was uncomfortably shrinking away towards the end of the table, "I'm Achilles."

"Pleased to meet you," whispered the unfortunate object of his attentions.

"What's your name, then?" persisted Achilles. The girl looked around for an opening, and seeing no alternative, opened her mouth to reply, but was interrupted.

"Briseis!" cried a tall, chestnut-haired girl, hurrying over. "I looked _all_ over for you in the dormitory – where on earth did you go?" She paused for breath and glared at Achilles. "Now, if _you_ wouldn't mind..."

Achilles sullenly moved over as the girl squeezed into the space between him and Briseis. "Andromache!" said Briseis, relief in her tone. "I thought you'd already gone down. Lucky you found me, though..."

Hmph, thought Achilles. This was going to be harder than he thought.

Towards the end of breakfast, Professor McGonagall stood up. "Lessons begin today!" she announced. "First-years, there are stacks of timetables at the head of your table. Collect them. Your first lesson, first-years, will be Chemistry, which will be held in the second-floor Science Lab in ten minutes. I suggest you hurry."

The dining hall emptied as all four levels hurried off to their various lessons. The first-years grabbed copies of the weekly timetable and rushed off for lessons.

The Science Lab (and all other classrooms, they later realised) was constructed so – with exactly fifteen desks, three columns and five rows, each desk wide enough for three people. Exactly forty-five seats for forty-five people.

Harry, Ron and Hermione noted the front centre desk was already taken – by the boy who had introduced himself as Artemis Fowl, Harry realised – so they sat down at the front left desk. At the back of the class, Merry, Sam and Frodo took the desk in front of Mulch, Pippin and Gimli. Merry's seat was next to an interesting-looking cupboard. Merry, out of curiosity, opened it.

Wide pink jaws armed with dripping fangs shot out. Merry squealed in fright and shoved the snake back inside, ramming the bolt home. The cupboard jiggled for a bit, then settled down. "Frodo," said Merry in a trembling tone, "could I change places with you?"

"You can stay there," replied Frodo unsympathetically.

Achilles was about to join Briseis in the back seat when Andromache again squeezed in between the two of them. She shot him a glare, then began conversing with Briseis and effectively leaving him out. Achilles clenched his fist and looked away. Ahead of him, Legolas and Paris sat on either side of Helen and stared daggers at each other.

Again the French Revolution (who were seated three behind three) burst into song. "Do you hear the people sing? Singing the song of angry men!"

"Shut up, will you!" yelled the girl in black riding clothes with dark wavy tresses in the row in front of Enjolras. "You little horrors!"

"You'd better not look down on little people!" called a small boy two rows back, who looked dwarfed amidst the taller revolutionaires. The rest of the Revolution laughed at his comment and grinned at the girl, who rolled her eyes and turned away. "Spawn of the devil!"

"Normally," interrupted her right deskmate, who was also in black, with a black leather hat lowered over his features, "I don't agree with women, but this time you seem to have a good point there."

The girl turned. "And who are _you_, anyway?"

The other raised his hat so he could look at her from under its brim. "Gabriel Van Helsing. But I'd prefer it if you used my surname rather than my first name."

"Anna Valerious," replied the girl in an offhand manner, tossing her wavy hair over her shoulder. "And I like my first name better, thank you very much."

"I'm Carl," offered the small mousy boy on Anna's left. "Hi."

"No one's talking to you," retorted Anna, black eyes flashing.

"Fine, fine, I get the message," muttered Carl, retreating to his end of the desk.

Holly and Éowyn had taken the same desk as Artemis Fowl, who was ignoring them pointedly. Not that either cared. "Hey!" called Éowyn to the people behind them. "Holly, meet my brother. Éomer, Holly. Holly, Éomer."

"Hey, sis," Éomer called back. "Meet my friends. Éowyn, Boromir. Boromir, Éowyn."

"Yo!" interrupted Faramir, who was seated between his brother and Éomer. Boromir clapped his hand over his mouth. "Ignore him," he told Éowyn with a serious face. "He talks crap."

"Mmf!" protested Faramir.

Just then, their Science teacher walked in. Holly recognized him as the old man in grey who had been with Commander Root in the hall yesterday. He walked over to the teacher's desk, laid his books and gnarled staff on it, added his pointed hat to the pile, and faced the class. "Good morning, class."

The class replied with a subdued greeting. They settled down, wondering what this lesson would bring.

Their teacher strode slowly to the front of the classroom and looked at them. "I am Gandalf the Grey, and I am your Science teacher for this year. You might like to know that you will be doing the Chemistry module this year, which happens to be my personal favourite, because you get to blow things up. Oh, and one of the rules in class is: no mobile phones."

There was silence. All eyes were riveted on Lili Frond, who was paying no attention to Gandalf and prattling away on her mobile phone. Haldir, who was her left deskmate, gave a loud sniff and cleared his throat ominously. Lili did not take the hint. Draco Malfoy, who was on her right, nudged her shoulder hard. She merely glared at him and continued talking. In the end, Trouble Kelp leaned backwards from his place in front of her, forcibly removed the phone and switched it off.

Lili opened her mouth, aghast, but Gandalf caught her eye. Lili lowered her gaze and began to sulk.

"Thank you, Mr. Kelp," said Gandalf calmly. "Now, what better to begin your Chemistry module than a fun experiment?" He placed a stack of worksheets in front of Éowyn. "If you wouldn't mind handing those out." As Éowyn began dividing them into stacks for each row, he went on. "Although it's only a beginning lesson, already you should start using the scientific skills of observation and inference – particularly in the case of chemical reactions." Éowyn leaned backwards and waved the worksheets in front of Faramir's nose to get his attention. In the end, Boromir took them in his brother's stead and dealt them out with a sigh. Gandalf continued: "You will be working with your other two deskmates. I might as well let you know that you will be sitting in this arrangement for the rest of the year, and doing everything with your fellow deskmates, so I suggest you get acquainted with them now."

That statement caused quite a stir among the class. Haldir and Malfoy glanced at Lili and rolled their eyes. Andromache gave Achilles a look of distaste. Holly and Éowyn threw Artemis suspicious glances. Anna glared at Van Helsing.

Gandalf had to call their attention back to the experiment at hand. "You will find all necessary apparatus on your bench. Start now, please, and you will finish by the end of this period."

Soon, the class was filled with much bustle and noise, plus a lot of bunsen burner smoke rising into the air.

"A bit of water," read Holly, "a _bit_, mind. Oh," she fumbled in her drawer and handed a tube to her partner, "I think this is the lead nitrate."

"How much?" asked Éowyn, looking unnaturally alien-like in enormous lab. protection glasses.

"Erm, five drops." The glasses had been too big for Holly, so she had ditched her pair. "Oi," she called to Artemis, "aren't you going to help at _all_?"

Artemis stared coolly back at her through the protective material of the glasses. "I am taking notes."

"Do something else more useful, then," snapped Holly, "like find the thitriamine penthathol extract."

"She's already found it," pointed out Artemis coldly, as Éowyn tipped the extract into the test tube along with the lead nitrate.

"Hmph." Holly turned back to Éowyn, fuming inwardly. "That Mud Boy is getting on my nerves."

Artemis went on taking notes innocuously.

At the desk to the right, a fairly similar argument was taking place. "Will you do _anything_?" seethed Anna. "Stop just sitting there with your stupid hat and _help_!"

"How?" replied Van Helsing. "You seem to be doing all the available jobs."

Anna glared. "You can light the bunsen burner." She searched for the lighter, but it was nowhere to be found.

"Ooh," she heard Carl say, "I've always wanted to light a bunsen burner. It looks such fun, except they never let me do it at home..."

Anna looked up to see Carl successfully light the bunsen burner. "Yay!" cried Carl.

Anna clenched her fists in frustration. "I want to kill someone. Now."

"Find someone else then," retorted Van Helsing. "We're not interested."

"Don't tempt me!"

"There is something wrong," pointed out Gimli at their desk at the back of the classroom.

"Yeah. Nasty," affirmed Mulch.

Pippin took off his lab glasses and, holding the test tube at arm's length, scrutinized it. "Oh dear." He put it in the rack and called to Frodo, "Hey! Can I see your solution?"

Sam raised it. "Is this okay? What's it for, anyway?"

Pippin stared in horror at their own test tube. "Oh no. Oh no, no, no..."

"What's the matter?" came a voice from behind them.

Pippin turned quickly. "Professor Gandalf! I think there's something wrong with our experiment! Look, Sam's is yellow, and the people on our right, theirs are yellow, and so's the solution of the people in front of them, and..."

"And yours is pink," finished Gandalf. He looked unusually stern. "Did you add the specified ingredients?"

"Well," began Mulch, "I added the thitriamine thing – I know 'cos I checked the label – "

"You didn't add the lead nitrate, did you?" said Gandalf accusingly.

"I saw the label said nitrate, so I added it..." whispered Pippin, but Gandalf interrupted. "Fool of a Took!" he roared and grabbing the test tube, he dumped its contents into the sink. Red smoke rose menacingly out of the drainhole, followed by a series of muffled explosions.

"What you just added," stated Gandalf, breathing hard, "was kestitamathripol nitrate. Which reacts rather strongly to thitriamine penthathol extract at a high temperature." He composed himself. "Well, let that be a lesson to the three of you. Never add anything to an experiment without checking the label first." With that, he strode off, grey robes billowing. However, he was distracted by a blinding flash of light from the desk on the right of Pippin's. "WHAT IN ARDA WAS THAT?!"

The culprit was looking decidedly pleased with himself as he dropped a crumbling bar of grey-white powder into the sink. "Yes?" he asked impertinently.

His other two deskmates, who had their arms thrown up over their eyes and were leaning away from him, made an effort to recover. Since the culprit himself gave no sign of wanting to explain, Gandalf turned to them instead. "What happened here?"

The boy which Legolas and Paris recognized as Will Turner coughed and tried to explain. "You see, Professor, we finished our experiment early, and then Jack got bored..."

"It's Captain Jack Sparrow, lad," put in Jack.

The blonde girl who had offended Legolas in the food queue last night spoke up, with a glare at Jack. "And then he found a jar of metal things labelled 'Magnesium Ribbons'..."

"Actually, Elizabeth, you found it," interrupted Jack. "I only made of your discovery."

"And he decided to set fire to one," finished Will weakly.

Gandalf looked down his long nose at Captain Jack Sparrow. "What have you to say for yourself, young man?"

Jack thought about it. "Could I have another jar, please?"

"Hopeless," muttered Gandalf in exasperation. "No, you cannot. Mr. Turner, Miss Swann, please keep an eye on him. Mr. Sparrow, I'll speak to you later about laboratory safety. The rest of you, get back to work."

"You shouldn't add so much water," advised Paris as Legolas filled the test tube from the tap. "The instructions say..."

"Oh, don't tell me you're scared," mocked Legolas.

"Shut up," muttered Paris, turning red. He watched Legolas pour in the other liquids. "I'll hold it over the flame, Helen. It's rather dangerous, so you should keep back."

"I'll do it," retorted Legolas.

"No, I will," insisted Paris.

"Let Paris," interjected Helen. "You did fill up the test tube, Legolas."

Paris smirked and snatched the test tube away, holding it over the fire with the wooden tongs. "Nothing's happening," pointed out Legolas sullenly.

"Patience is a virtue," chided Paris. "Are you virtuous? I think not."

Legolas looked all set to smack Paris hard, but Helen cried, "Look! It's bubbling! And turning yellow!"

And so it was. The solution bubbled furiously, becoming a thick lemon yellow and expanding at an amazing rate. By rights, Gandalf should have noticed by now, especially since he was just in front of Legolas, but at that moment he had been distracted by the French Revolution – Gavroche accidently setting fire to Grantaire's wine-flask with the bunsen burner – and hence he didn't notice the discrepancy behind him.

"Is it supposed to be that fast?" mused Paris. "Maybe we did add too much water..."

Then the solution boiled over the mouth of the test tube and exploded into an angry yellow fountain. The hot liquid burst all over Paris and Legolas (Helen was too far back to be hit seriously) and scalded them mercilessly. All three screamed.

Gandalf jumped and hurried over. This was becoming a very hectic first lesson.

"My face," moaned Legolas, "my face is _ruined_...oh my god, no..."

"Ow..." groaned Paris, "it _hurts_...I knew we shouldn't have added so much water..."

Helen was screaming purely from trauma.

Gandalf sighed. "Someone take them to the sick bay. Volunteers?"

"I'll take Paris," volunteered a young man sitting next to Aragorn. "He's my brother."

"Good." Gandalf pointed at Will Turner. "You, take Mr. Greenleaf. Now, the rest of you, finish your worksheet and wrap up. It's almost time for your next lesson."

He strode back to the front of the classroom and addressed the people who had finished packing up and were queuing up with their stationery and books. "Your next lesson is Home Economics. One floor up, in the first-year Home-Econs. Room. Hurry up, hurry up now. And you," this to Helen, "you can stop screaming. Move off so I can sweep up the glass." As the class hurried off, he could not help letting out a sigh of relief. He would not miss turning them over to the lady Galadriel. He just hoped she could cope with them.

**End of Chapter**

_Next chapter coming ... _**Stitching and Submative-Assessments**


	4. Stitching and Submative Assessments

**A&A&A Boarding School**

Authoresses' Note: We are glad and pleased that we have such a lot of reviews (although Rukuelle is saddened that most of them pertain to Lydia, although it is understandable. After all, Lydia is of EftP fame. But Rukuelle still wishes someone might review for her, for a change...). Thank yous, to SteelFlame (Faramir's odd 'cos we can make him go through character development later) Asha Ice, Crow, Cerse, Tesmarana, The Woods Witch and Celias23. We're glad how you appreciate the triple Orlando Bloom conjunction. Rukuelle muses off how a double Keira Knightley might look...

**4. Stitching and Submative-assessments**

"Hello, dears," said the lady at the front of the classroom. Many of the students recognised her as the woman who had been ladling out stew last night and porridge this morning. "I am the Lady Galadriel, and your Aesthetics teacher."

"I wonder what Aesthetics is?" muttered Grub to Trouble.

"Aesthetics," replied Galadriel, almost as if she had caught that whisper, "is the learning and appreciation of arts. Your basic module this year involves Home Economics, Performing Arts and Art and Craft, all which I shall be teaching."

"Is that good or bad?" muttered Merry to Sam.

"Of course it's good," went on Galadriel. "I am the best and only Aesthetics teacher you will ever get in this school."

"I think she can read our minds," thought Frodo.

"I can," answered Galadriel, looking straight at him. "I am the mistress of many extraordinary powers. And it does no good to offend me." She spun around and faced Van Helsing. "You, dear," she said. "Do take off your hat."

"I like to have it on, thank you," replied Van Helsing coolly. _I wonder how come she doesn't pick on the guy at the back with the pirate hat..._

"It will interfere with your learning," said Galadriel, eyes narrowing eerily. "Now, do take it off before I start on you."

Van Helsing glared back.

Galadriel's eyes grew even narrower. They seemed to radiate some mystical power; the tension between teacher and student was electrical. Then Van Helsing, almost meekly, took off his hat.

Anna and Carl looked from Galadriel to Van Helsing, mouths open in shock.

"Thank you, dear." Galadriel swept back to the front of the classroom. "Now, this Home Economics lesson will involve – sewing."

Achilles raised his hand at the back. "And why," he called, "do _we_ need to learn sewing?"

Andromache glared at him. Galadriel, however, did not. She merely stopped her sweeping pace and gave him the sort of smile adults give to children who relentlessly insist that chocolate is a lot more healthier than spinach.

"I suppose," she began, "you think that it is only women who have to sew. Sewing to you, and to most of the boys who first pass through my hands, is a feminine task. However, say if the world ran out of women. Who would mend your clothes? Who would even bother making them? You would have _no_ clothes."

Achilles looked as if he would rather have no clothes than endure any more anti-chauvinistic talk, but Galadriel went on mercilessly. "Sewing is a job that should be shared among men and women. Men must learn that women will not stand having all the domestic chores thrust upon them, and that they can and will take their share. As my dear husband learnt himself."

"I pity her husband," thought Achilles.

"Don't worry," said Galadriel. "He's quite happy under my rule. Celeborn is _such_ a dear. Anyway, today we shall start lightly. Now, you will find spare cloth, thread, needles and scissors in your desk drawers. We are going to learn how to sew – " she paused for dramatic effect, "– buttons."

She was not exactly very pleased with the shocked silence that followed.

"Well," Galadriel frowned at her students. "Do take them out." She turned around and began to draw a diagram on the board as her students fumbled for the sewing equipment. It took fifteen minutes to explain in detail the method of sewing buttons.

"Now," said Galadriel. "You will practice sewing your own buttons. And I must warn you, this piece of work is _submative_."

"What's submative?" wondered Éomer.

Galadriel was happy to elaborate. "Submative means the grade for this piece of button-sewing is counted into your overall examination grade. So you must put in effort even on this."

Hermione looked all ready to start sewing, at the mention of submative and overall grade.

Galadriel beamed at them all. "Begin."

And so proceeded their first submative assessment and (for the majority of the boys, at least) nightmare.

The first stumbling-block encountered by most of the class was the threading of the needle. Galadriel made it look easy; it wasn't. Threads split; needles slipped; fibres frayed; as did tempers. In the end, Arwen had to thread Aragorn's needle for him, and also the needle of her other deskmate, Paris's brother Hector. Galadriel managed to get Andromache to help Achilles thread his.

In the middle column's fourth row, just behind Arwen, two girls were fighting for the attention of a bemused boy. "Marius," crooned the girl on his right, whose chestnut hair was coloured with stunning gold streaks, "_I'll_ thread your needle!"

"No," interjected the girl on his left, the ragged French girl who had snapped at Chix last night. "Let _me_ thread it for you, Marius."

"I'll thread it myself," said Marius hurriedly, and forced the thread through the needle's eye – successfully, he noted in relief. The two girls looked disappointed, so he hastily added, "But thank you anyway, er..."

"Eponine," offered the girl with black curls.

"Cosette," declared the neat chestnut-haired girl, who also had a strong French accent.

"Er, well, thank you."

Then there came the sewing itself. Faramir had sewed happily through the button three times by the time Boromir pointed out he hadn't tied the knot in the first place. Then he had to tirelessly convince Faramir to unpick all his work and start over.

"My needle is jammed," complained Éowyn as her needle got stuck in a buttonhole.

"Force it through," suggested Holly, who was finding it no easy task herself.

Éowyn accordingly shoved hard at the needle, which promptly snapped into two. "I hate sewing," muttered Éowyn, as she angrily swept the broken needle into Artemis's pile and dug a new one out of her drawer. Artemis looked with distaste at the needle halves and gingerly poked them off the table.

The French Revolution had only selected the cloth scraps that were red in colour, and they were now singing, "Red! The blood of angry men!" much to the extreme annoyance of Anna and Van Helsing.

"These buttons actually have a rather tangy flavour," observed Mulch as he popped yet another button into his mouth and crunched on it. Pippin glanced at him uneasily as three more buttons followed their unfortunate fellow. Mulch burped with satisfaction.

Helen sewed alone and missed the company of her two admirers. Will Turner might have joined her, but Galadriel had told them they were not on any account to change seats.

Malfoy glanced at Lili. Galadriel had disallowed her to use her phone in class, and Lili was sulking again. She had not even touched her needle. Malfoy wondered if he should try goading her into sewing, but decided it might be better if he just let her fail of her own accord.

"I – Hate – Sewing!" muttered Achilles through clenched teeth. Briseis glanced at him worriedly as he positioned the needle like an attacking spear and drove it furiously through the buttonhole. "It is, after all, a woman's job."

Andromache sniffed. "_Men_."

Achilles growled and stabbed at the buttonhole as if it was Andromache's eye socket. Then he received a huge shock when Galadriel stuck her head over his shoulder. "_Gently_, Achilles dear. It's a needle, not a spear."

Achilles wondered how long she had been standing there without him noticing, and dug the needle in viciously. Galadriel's eye socket would have been a much better comparison.

Ten minutes before the end of the lesson, Galadriel called them all to finish up their last stitches. "Now," she announced, "I shall collect all of your work. And then I shall grade them in class, so you can watch and learn how to improve – and I shall test in particular how strong your stitching is."

When the cloths were laid in a motley pile of colours on her table, Galadriel lifted up the foremost – Hermione's. Hermione held her breath as Galadriel noted the stitching pattern, the number of stitches, the neatness of the thread. Then Hermione gasped in horror as she hooked two long fingernails under the button and ripped at it.

The button held.

Galadriel smiled at Hermione. "A," she said approvingly, and Hermione nearly dissolved in relief.

Harry's survived, and he received an A too. Ron was not so lucky. His button came away between the fingernails of doom. "B," sentenced Galadriel. "Your method is right, but you do not sew well enough. Improve, dear boy."

Ron drooped miserably.

In turn, each member of the class held their breaths as Galadriel methodically and ruthlessly ripped at each of their buttons. Van Helsing's stayed firm, but Galadriel gave him a B, because he had paranoidly redoubled the thread so many times that the button was buried amidst a forest of white fibres. "In future," she said sternly, "four rounds will do."

Anna smirked when she got an A.

Arwen received an A – "Of course, my darling granddaughter," – and to his relief, so did Aragorn. Hector's was ripped unmercifully from its cloth. Hector winced.

The French Revolutions' buttons were sewn so loosely they ripped like a scene of synchrony. Button after button was wrenched in perfect rhythm from their scarlet nests. The revolutionaires looked unrepentant.

Galadriel's eyes narrowed in the now familiarly dangerous way when she saw Lili's sewing. Or rather, lack thereof. "Lili, would you explain this?"

"Sewing is bad for my fingers," muttered Lili sullenly. "It gives them wrinkles."

"Then you will have to put up with the wrinkles," replied Galadriel severely, and gave Lili a 'D'.

Achilles seemed to have sewn so viciously a patch of cloth ripped off along with the button, edges serrated with needleholes. Galadriel tutted. "What did I say? _Gently_..."

At last, Galadriel put down the last cloth and pronounced Briseis an 'A'. The people who had got 'A's breathed in relief. The people who hadn't were either sobbing into their partners' shoulders or, in Van Helsing's case (he certainly wasn't going to sob into Anna's shoulder), glaring moodily at his desktop. Achilles hurled all his sewing equipment into the drawer and glared at Andromache, who was prissily helping Briseis line the needles up in neat rows.

Galadriel beamed at them all. "Now, run along, dears. You have recess next, but since there's going to be Firearms afterwards, I suggest you use that time to change into more – " she glanced at Helen's flowing white Greek gown, "– _appropriate_ attire for outdoor activity. Recess in the dining hall; Firearms will be in the range building in the field outside."

They hurriedly streamed out of the doors. The French Revolution were singing loudly again. Galadriel stuck her head out after them and yelled: "_Taisez-vous_! There _are_ other classes having lessons now!" The French Revolution subsided into many mutters. The rest fled down the spiral stairs towards the dining hall, extremely glad to escape.

**End of Chapter**

_Next chapter coming..._** Crossfire and the Commander**


	5. Crossfire and the Commander

**A&A&A** **Boarding School**

Authoresses's Note: We thank cordially SteelFlame, Kit Cloudkicker (the French Revolution come from Les Misérables. In case you have no idea what that is, the French Revolution are a gang of over-enthusiastic French students who are under the impression that they are soldiers fighting for the freedom of the Republic of France), Celias23, Crow (we are glad you like our swift updating. But when the school holidays are over…sigh…), Gavvie, hidden darkness, aknightofni (queer name you have, no offence), and Asha Ice (sorry about the summative assessments, says Lydia. Your precious James Bond will get his little cameo in this chapter.) Rukuelle points out disapprovingly that Lydia forgot to mention that the button-ripping scene in the last chapter would have gone best with the music of 'The Blue Danube'. Oh yes, and our fifth chapter, which we hope lives up to expectations.

**5. Crossfire and the Commander**

The first-years discovered that recess was generally full of nice things – courtesy of the lady Galadriel – and they settled down for the first half of recess to try out the nicer-looking tarts. The second half most of the girls devoted to getting into more outdoor-friendly apparel. Elizabeth happily ditched her ladylike outfit and her corset, emerging in what looked like a stolen pageboy's costume. Aragorn observed that Arwen looked quite as lovely in riding wear as she did in embroidered gowns.

Cosette and Helen were highly upset, mainly because they had _no_ outdoor-friendly apparel. Cosette fretted greatly all through recess (to the sadistic satisfaction of Eponine, who was still in her motley set of rags that were slightly too big for her).

According to Galadriel's instructions, half an hour later the class of first-years trooped onto the first floor of the spacious firing range. Holly blinked as she recognized her old litigant, Commander Root. He was waiting with barely hidden impatience by a large pile of rifles.

Root faced his class, several of which had taken a step backwards at the sight of rifles. "Don't look so shocked. This is a firearms class. Now, how many of you can fire a rifle?"

Quite a few raised their hands, including Holly, Trouble Kelp, all of the French Revolution except Gavroche, Anna, Van Helsing and Jack.

Root glared at the last two. "Take off your hats. They don't help in the shooting."

Van Helsing replied as politely as possible. "Sorry. I think I shoot better with my hat on."

Root shrugged. "Suit yourself." To the rest of the people with raised hands he said, "It's good that there're so many of you. I hope this class doesn't end up like the one last year. Freaked out. All of you, take a rifle and watch how I load it."

There was a rush for the rifles. Some, however, were not so keen on getting their own guns. Cosette, for one, handled hers like hot metal fresh off the forge, and barely paid attention to the short briefing on loading a rifle.

For Holly, the briefing took an achingly long time. She badly wanted to get to the range and start pumping away. Beside her, Éowyn was examining her rifle in great wonder. "This a gun, you say? Well, I can see why you like it."

Holly flashed her a grin. "Wait till you start firing."

Before them, Root had finished his briefing. "Okay!" he roared. "Get onto the range! Load your rifles! Start firing!"

They rushed to comply. Despite the order given, however, none of them seemed really eager to be the first to start.

"What are you waiting for?" demanded Root edgily.

Holly glanced at Root, and then at the target. Then she lifted the rifle to her shoulder, sighted briefly through the magnifier and yanked the trigger back.

The recoil kicked her hard in the shoulder and jarred it, but she was prepared for that, and braced herself as the gun jerked in her arms. Even then she felt the rush of adrenaline as she saw her bullet burn through the air, in a perfect line, and at that distance, she could hear the satisfying thud of missile through paper.

The target paper came swaying back on the connecting wire. Smack in its middle was a perfect hole. Éowyn and several others applauded. Even Root looked impressed. "Good," he muttered as he peered at the hole. Then he turned to the rest. "Well, Cadet Short's done it. What about the rest of you, eh?"

They got the message and hurriedly started firing.

Commander Root strolled behind his class, watching with a hawks' eye as he noted the good and bad points of this lot. Good points like Holly Short. Bad points like Cosette.

"I...I can't...I don't _dare_..." Cosette was still clutching the rifle the wrong way, and holding it as far away as she could from her body. Root rolled his eyes. "Hold it _this_ way. Pull the trigger. Yes, pull it." Cosette's trembling finger rested on the trigger and tugged weakly. With, of course, no effect on the gun itself. Root lost his temper. "CADET! WILL YOU PULL THE DAMN TRIGGER!"

Cosette jumped in fright and pulled the trigger. The gun went off and the bullet smashed into Hector's target two places further up. Cosette screamed and dropped the rifle. Eponine glanced over at her and smirked as she fired a shot herself, neatly hitting the target paper. Root gave the traumatized Cosette an exasperated look and marched off.

The French Revolution were firing like mad, and not necessarily at their own targets. There were exclamations of annoyance further down the line as a revolutionaire's bullet knocked yet another missile off target and ruined a perfect shot. "I thought," roared Root, "you said you could shoot?"

"We did," replied Enjolras in between outbursts of maniacal laughter. "We didn't say we could aim!" With another series of wild cackles, the French Revolution launched yet another volley of bullets at random targets. Several indignant "Oi!"s were heard from the other people whose own bullets had gotten knocked away.

"Hm," muttered Briseis. "I'm sure I can do this."

"Of course you can," Andromache reassured her, although she hadn't fired a shot either.

"Sure you can," called Achilles, and fired at his own target. Andromache gave him an aggravated look.

Briseis raised the rifle to her shoulder and fired. The bullet lodged itself in the metal floor. "Higher," said Andromache encouragingly.

Briseis accordingly aimed higher and fired. This time she hit the wall below her target. "_Higher_," advised Andromache.

Briseis aimed as high as possible and fired. The bullet shockingly punched through the ceiling. There was a loud "OW!"

Muffled voices followed.

"Look! He's shot! Bond's been shot!"

"Ooh! Where?"

"Ow! Stop touching it, Lara!"

"Lara, stop poking James in the foot, he's injured Someone should call Vinyáya."

"Go get her yourself, Trinity."

"Yeah, that's the best – OW!"

Andromache and Achilles turned to stare at Briseis's guilty face. "Oops," she whispered. "Sorry."

Anna sighted carefully and fired. The bullet landed in the target paper, not too far from the centre. She grinned.

Van Helsing glanced at Anna's shot, then fired his own rifle. His bullet landed even nearer to the bull's eye.

Anna grimaced. She fired again and hit the smallest ring. She turned to smirk at Van Helsing.

Van Helsing rolled his eyes. Again he pulled the trigger. The bullet lodged itself in the centre of the target.

"I hate that guy," Anna muttered to herself.

"Trubs," complained Grub Kelp, "this is so tough."

Trouble ignored his kid brother and squeezed off another shot.

"It's so heavy," went on Grub, despite the lack of a willing listener, "and every time I shoot it hurts my shoulder. I want to stop. Trubs, are you listening?"

"No," said Trouble matter-of-factly.

"Trubs! You're supposed to take care of me. Mummy said so."

Trouble gritted his teeth and groaned. "_Brothers_!"

Somewhere further up the line, Boromir sighted through his magnifier and tried to block out Faramir's incessant singing. Not only was it incessant, but it was absolutely meaningless. The longest word in that song had to be "La".

"Faramir, stop singing for a second. I want to aim properly."

Faramir obliged, and continued his singing a second later. Boromir's temper snapped. "Faramir! I said, stop singing for a second!"

"I did," pointed out Faramir. "For exactly a second, like you asked."

"Oh, save me," wailed Boromir. "_Brothers_!"

Root reached the end of the row and strode back, propping Frodo's rifle higher up, reminding Pippin to reload his. "Stop shooting at the floor, cadet."

Mulch looked back at him over his shoulder. "I can't shoot any higher, Julius."

Root was taken aback for a moment. "And how..."

Mulch pointed a stubby finger at Root's nametag. "Fairly obvious, eh?"

Root recovered composure. "You can adjust the angle of your rifle. And it's _Commander Root _to you, cadet!"

Mulch shrugged and turned back to firing. "Titles, titles." He sighed.

Root glared at the dwarf's back and continued reviewing his students. He reached the French Revolution just in time to witness Grantaire blow another bullethole through the ceiling and elicit the resulting "OW!"

"Ow, damnit! Ow!"

"Quatermain! Keep still, let's see that wound. Can't you keep still, man?"

"Lee Scoresby! Don't you dare touch that – ow!"

"Dearie me. This looks bad, doesn't it, Lee?"

"You shut up, Vittoria. Where's Vinyáya?"

A new voice cut in, clear, crisp and no-nonsense. "Julius! Will you _please_ tell your students to stop shooting mine?"

Root had turned the approximate colour of boiling volcanic lava. "Yes, of course, Vinyáya," he called up to the hole in the ceiling, voice deceptively calm. Then he turned to Grantaire, the angered swelling now visible. "You hear that? Do that again and I will personally see to it that your detention is the worst in the history of this school so far. And that goes to the rest of you," he hissed at the rest of the French Revolution.

"Yes, sir!" chorused the French Revolution, in voices that were almost too cheerful for Root to believe that they were taking him seriously.

Some time later, the bell rang, much to Root's relief. He ordered them to leave their rifles in a pile by the door and go for their next lesson. Then he busied himself with collecting target papers and considering whether trusting them with more explosives next lessons might really be wise.

**End of Chapter**

_Next chapter coming ... _**History and the Haunted Library**


	6. History and the Haunted Library

**A&A&A Boarding School**

Authoresses' Note: This will be the last update in a long time. School has reopened, and typing time will be restricted to a few precious minutes sneaked in between performance tasks and streaming exams. No more swift updating. Sighs.

To our reviewers, thanks to Asha Ice (and James Bond is _meant_ to be shot, believe us), southerngirl4615 (no, we don't blame you, and thanks for the compliment), FlameTalon (it was a matter of even numbers), Crow (pity there'll be no more of those), Elen uur (we are most sorry, but our lives are dedicated to making Legolas miserable. Transfer your affections to Will Turner. We're nice to him, for Elizabeth's sake), Celias23 (we believe it a kind suggestion, but we have frankly no idea who Icabod Crane is, so, beg pardon), aknightofni (Monty Python? How queer), hotdogfish (As to Troy characters, see below), and I AM EOWYN (no sword classes, yet, but there _might_ be taekwondo...)

At any rate, Lydia would like to add that the Clear, Relevant, Accurate and Precise ideal concept is a real concept that her History teacher believes in. Lydia hasn't pointed out her observations about it either.

We note there are some confusions about Troy characters, so here are short explanations (with spoilers) :

Achilles: Tough Greek warrior with great kungfu skills and low level sensitivity, greatest killer born to slay Trojans, who meets Briseis the peace advocate and falls in love with her. How sweet.

Briseis: Trojan Princess with religious ideals and a peaceful nature, who attempts converting Achilles to become a peacable fellow himself.

Helen: The beauty who launched a thousand ships, whom Paris steals from her husband and starts the Trojan War with. Probably the ancient Greek version of a bimbo.

Paris: Sissy cowardly brother of Hector and a prince of Troy, who falls in love with Helen, elopes with her and gets everyone else killed as a result.

Hector: The Great Prince of Troy and its finest warrior, responsible, serious and manly. Eventually gets slain by Achilles.

Andromache: Wife of Hector, motherly and always slightly anxious about her husband. Can be a bit prissy at times, but always reliable as a comforting hand.

Anyway, we own nothing but the School and the Story. Not even the Librarian. 

**6. History and the Haunted Library**

When they stumbled into the next lesson, Cosette and Briseis were still looking fairly shell-shocked. Their History teacher was digging through his desk and trying to find a marker that was still working. Even from his back view, Éowyn recognised him.

"Hey, Uncle Théoden!"

Théoden looked up, none too offended. "Éowyn! How many times have I told you, in class we are to have a student-teacher relationship! No 'Uncle's! I don't call you sister-daughter in class, you know. It's unfair to the other students. And that goes for you too, Éomer. Now, sit."

"Yes, Professor Théoden," muttered Éowyn as she slipped into the seat between Holly and Artemis. When his back was turned, she hissed under her breath, "_Uncle_."

Théoden found a red marker that still had ink, and advanced on the board. "I am your history teacher, King Théoden of Rohan, but you will address me as Professor Théoden." He shot his niece and nephew careful glances. "Now, I am fairly sure many of you have misconceptions about history."

"Isn't history just history?" interrupted Éowyn. "What's there to misconcept about?"

Théoden glared. "For one, misconcept isn't a verb, but your English teacher will correct that for you. Secondly, a _lot_ of people always have misconceptions about history. So, we will begin by looking into a Concept of Understanding."

Éowyn and Éomer groaned. "Please, Uncle! Those are _boring_!"

"Éowyn!"

Éowyn subsided. "What are Concepts of Understanding?" whispered Holly.

"Codeword for Long Essayish Crap."

Théoden was writing on the board: WHY STUDY HISTORY? "Now," he said when he had finished. "Can anyone tell me why you need to study history?"

Achilles raised his hand. Théoden nodded at him.

"We don't." Achilles smirked as quite a few others laughed.

Théoden looked displeased. "Can anyone give me a _real_ reason? Yes, erm...Frodo?"

"Because it's half of Humanities marks?" suggested Frodo.

Théoden frowned. "_No_. Yes, erm...Hermione? Perhaps you can give a real answer?"

Hermione stood up, excitement in her face. "We learn History so that we are aware of the deeds of our ancestors and their achievements, and mistakes. Especially their mistakes, because in their failures we can also learn important lessons and guard again making the same mistakes in the future. For example, the – "

"Thank you," cut in Théoden hurriedly. "I would love to hear the rest, but we are running short of time." He turned to the rest. "Miss Granger has just given a very good answer to my question. And now, the reason for this discussion is because later, we are going to..."

"Oh no..." groaned Éowyn.

"...to write an essay!" finished Théoden happily.

Several people groaned. Hermione had the audacity to look thrilled.

"Don't complain," went on Théoden. "I want this essay by the end of this lesson. It is to be titled 'Why Study History?' and at least two pages long. You are to elaborate and give examples for each point, and all your points must be Clear, Relevant, Accurate and Precise. That is the ideal."

Mulch, at the back of the class, had been doodling on a piece of scrap paper, and had just realised after some scribbling, that Clear, Relevant, Accurate and Precise abbreviated spelt C.R.A.P – a point which he wisely did not mention to Théoden.

"So start," finished Théoden. With loud sighs, the class took out pen and paper and began.

Ten minutes later, Hermione had finished four pages in minute handwriting and was still going strong. Beside her, Ron chewed his quill and glanced enviously at her work.

The majority of the French Revolution were writing like wildfire and citing all their examples from the period of the French Revolution – with the exception of Gavroche, who was drawing out his essay in a comic strip.

Elizabeth glanced at Jack and saw that he was writing in enormous round handwriting. Each word took up three lines. Jack had, by means of this space-consuming handwriting, written one paragraph over four pages and was extremely proud of himself. Elizabeth rolled her eyes and went back to toiling through her own essay.

Achilles glowered at his essay. _We need to study history because_

He supported his forehead with a muscular hand and groaned. The ideas were simply not coming. Give him a sword and he could handle any crisis, but give him an essay to write...

_because our stupid teacher makes us._

Now, that wasn't right, but he was past caring. Any inspiration was a good thing.

_I don't know what I'm talking about but I do know that history sure is useless._

What followed that statement were a series of quickly scribbled Greek swear words that it would be better not to mention.

"Are you looking at my paper?" snapped Anna.

"No." Van Helsing didn't even look up from under his hat. "Why would I? It'd probably lower my grades."

"I'm so going to kill you."

"I'd like to see you try."

"You..."

"Hey!"

Both turned to look at Carl. "Quit it," said Carl peacably. "Calm down, guys. It's a history lesson here."

Anna and Van Helsing threw Carl an irritated glance, but settled back to work.

Eventually the bell rang. For people like Hermione, the lesson had passed too quickly to be believable. For people like Achilles, the lesson had passed unbearingly slow. Achilles stapled his two pages worth of Greek swear words and handed them up to the front. Hermione glanced at her thirteen stapled pages and felt a twinge of pride. The only other essay with over ten pages was that of Artemis Fowl, which was eleven pages long. But then, reasoned Artemis, it wasn't length that mattered, but quality.

That was until Jack Sparrow passed up his twenty-three page long essay, covered in his wondrously huge handwriting. Hermione stared in shock as Jack sauntered back to his seat.  
  
Théoden stacked all his essays neatly in a pile and nodded to the class. "You can go."

"Bet he can't wait to mark them," muttered Éowyn as they left class. "What's it now?"

"Lunch," replied Holly, glancing at her filed timetable. "We get a whole hour."

Éowyn nodded happily. "At last. Out of these stuffy classrooms..."

Galadriel seemed to have gone potatoes. On the long lunch table were laid out bowls of potato soup, dishes of potato salad, a large platter of fish stuffed with potato, and every other potato-based dish she could think of. Galadriel herself was scooping mashed potato onto the plates of the students queuing up.

"Is that potato ice cream down there?" asked Sam tentatively.

"I don't want to know," muttered Frodo, heading back to the table.

All over the dining hall, people gradually grew sicker of potatoes.

"I can't take it any more!" moaned Ron. "I think I'm off potatoes forever."

Hermione had eaten sparingly – fortunately for her. She stood up, picking up her plate. "Come on!"

"Where?" inquired Harry. "I think Ron's too full to move."

"Umf," agreed Ron.

Hermione marched off towards the crockery disposal point. Harry and Ron followed against their better judgement. Hermione dumped her plate and cutlery in the bin and waited for the two of them to do the same. Then she revealed her remarkable plan.

"We're going to look for a library!"

"Why am I not surprised?" whimpered Ron as she dragged them off towards the spiral staircase.

After five minutes and miles of endless empty corridor, they finally came upon a glass door with the word 'Library' embossed on it. The room beyond it looked dark and fairly dusty.  
  
"I don't think it's open, Hermione," said Ron warily.

"There's no 'Closed' sign, so it must be." Hermione yanked the glass door open and strode in. Harry and Ron had no choice but to follow.

The library was dimly lit, and only then in the centre, by oil lamps hanging from a ring of bookshelves surrounding some sort of divan. Tutting about the fire hazard, Hermione wandered into the dark recesses of the library, amongst the musty bookshelves. Harry followed, lugging Ron, but as it got darker they lost Hermione among the shelves of volumes. It was barely light enough for him to see that they were in Section FRA – FYR.

Ron suddenly let out a horrified whimper. Harry gazed in the direction of his trembling fingers and made out in the half light the shape of a ghostly cobweb, spun across the end of the section. Both of them backed away down the aisle, Ron shuddering in terror. "Spiders...not spiders...they keep _spiders_ in the library?"

It looked highly likely, mused Harry to himself. Cobwebs, darkness, musty books – he wouldn't be surprised if the library turned out to be haunted.

Suddenly, there was a loud crash. Then another. Then another. And over it all a long-drawn scream.

Harry and Ron looked at each other in shock. "Hermione!" And both of them began running in the direction of the sound.

They found Hermione, looking pale and frightened, standing on the edge of what seemed like a major bookshelf destruction. The bookshelves had fallen down on top of each other, in what seemed eerily like a domino pattern. Hermione was mouthing in horror. "What on earth..."

She didn't get any further. To their immense alarm, a hand appeared from underneath a bookshelf. Then another. They watched as a young woman pulled herself from under the fallen bookshelves, coughing slightly from the disturbed dust, and got to her feet. She was dressed in an old-fashioned looking dress, with curly dark tresses and a lace collar. She was also fairly pretty, with huge doe-like dark eyes. But the unnatural thing was, she was entirely transparent.

The three of them just stood and stared at the newly arrived ghost.

It was the ghost who broke the silence. "Ooh," she exclaimed. "Visitors! There hasn't been anyone visiting this library in _ages_! In decades!"

Her three visitors just went on staring. Eventually Hermione ventured to ask, "So you _are_ dead."

The ghost let out a small unhappy sigh. "Oh, yes, I suppose so." She turned and trotted back towards the ring of bookshelves. To their surprise, the bookshelves creaked and straightened back up, creased books folding back into position, encyclopaedias lining back up in the correct order. "I'm Evelyn, by the way," she went on, as she picked up a ladder which had been lying under a bookshelf. She propped it up against the shelf and began to climb it. "The librarian. I was a student here, forty years ago."

"That's long," muttered Ron under his breath.

"I liked books," said Evelyn. "I loved this library. I spent every free hour I had here. Up till the day I died."

"Which was?" muttered Harry to Ron.

Evelyn reached up, her tone now surprised. "Why, Keats! You're not supposed to be here." She seemed to have forgotten entirely about them now, engrossed in finding the correct place for the book she had plucked off the shelf. Turning around on the ladder, she spotted it. "There you are," she cried, and leaned backwards. And backwards. Just as she pushed Keats back into his proper place, the ladder overbalanced and toppled, crashing into the bookshelf behind her.

The bookshelf fell like a stone, at the same time toppling the bookshelf behind it, which toppled the bookshelf behind it, which toppled the bookshelf behind it, and so on and so forth, in an inexorable domino effect. And because the bookshelves were arranged in a ring, the last bookshelf teetered ominously on its edge, before finally collapsing and crushing Evelyn beneath it.

Harry, Ron and Hermione were too shocked to comment.

The ghostly librarian extracted herself from beneath the bookcases and brushed herself off as they silently rose back into their original formation. "Now, you see," she said, smiling benignly at them.

Ron nodded mutely, too dumbfounded to speak.

Evelyn found the ladder again and stepped onto its first rung. Harry saw the danger signs, and taking the other two by the hands, nodded politely to Evelyn. "It's been, er, nice meeting you, and visiting the library – "

"Oh, I'm glad," replied Evelyn as she reached out for a copy of 'Twelfth Night'.

" – but we really must be going," finished Harry. "We have, um, Language Arts. So sorry. Be seeing you."

"I really hope so," murmured Evelyn as Harry hauled his two friends after him through the library aisles and past the glass door, in the direction of the Language Classrooms. They could hear the librarian as they hurried down the corridor. "You're not there, you belong in the Shakespeare category. Oh, there it is. Now, let's see if I can reach it..."

A thunderous crash sounded, followed by another, and another. Harry glanced over his shoulder, and the three of them fled the corridor for the spiral staircase, as the noise of each crash followed them ominously.

**End of Chapter**

_Next chapter coming ..._**Term Essays and Taekwondo.**


	7. Term Essays and Taekwondo

**A&A&A Boarding School**

Authoresses' Note: We are most sorry. Most extremely sorry. But we couldn't help it. We've been harassed by history tests, plagued by orals, and Lydia has French Examen next Wednesday. Our country has a terrible education system. Effective, but terrible.

Anyhow, we are still grateful to our reviewers, whose numbers are indeed growing very much (not that we mind, you know). Accolades to FlameTalon, Asha Ice (yes, Jack is from Pirates of the Carribean. He drinks rum, which Lydia has taken a huge liking to), southerngirl4615, Fan of Fan Fic, Celias23, Crow (you do have a point, though Elrond teaches Literature here), aknightofni, SwordSwallower17, codefun (Lydia says that making Hermione slack, darling, is like making Achilles vote world peace or Jack convert to teetotaling. Are you going to the Mooncake Festival at Rosyth on Saturday 25 September, 5 – 8 pm, dear?), Kit Cloudkicker (see below), Invader 101, manveridaughterofmirkwood (you owe us 11 reviews, lissehondonya), Cerse (we wonder what bishounen are, having never been exposed to anime or the likes), cocoaducks (short and sweet, you know), I AM EOWYN (Rukuelle hates Twelfth Night, ironically. She thinks Olivia is a sop) and ringbearer769. Oh, that _was_ long.

Kit Cloudkicker and many others have expressed ignorance of Artemis Fowl (which is a wonderful book, we both agree.) So, here goes. Artemis Fowl for Dummies (no offence!)

**Artemis Fowl: **Irish boy genius and criminal mastermind with an impregnable ego and a glaring lack of conscience.

**Holly Short:** The belle of LEPRecon, but one tough gal. She's slightly under the fairy average of one metre, but she makes up for it by having more guts and sass than the other guys in Recon put together.

**Mulch Diggums: **Flatulent dwarf and master thief. He's got a smart mouth and likes to eat dirt. Literally.

**Trouble Kelp:** LEPRecon captain, stolid and unhesitant to dive into fire. Trouble is his middle name – or, to be exact, his first.

**Grub Kelp: **Trouble's pathetic excuse for a kid brother. His one talent is making up excuses to get out of anything.

**Lili Frond: **The bimbo of the LEP. Need we say more?

**Chix Verbil: **Overly lecherous sprite. Believes he's God's greenskinned gift to women. Apparently, they don't think so.

**Commander Julius Root: **The LEPRecon red-faced Commander, who talks tough and has the tendency to blow up in fits of anger.

**Wing Commander Vinyáya: **One of the few Council members who can handle an electric gun. We think Root's a little fond of her.

**Domovoi Butler: **Artemis Fowl's 2-metre tall bodyguard and probably the best in the business. Not the nicest person to face off in a fight.

**Foaly: **Smart-mouthed centaur, who's a techonoligcal genius and lets everyone know about it.

None of which we own. Read, do.

**7. Term Essays and Taekwondo**

Celeborn hefted his pile of dictionaries under his arm and sighed.

It wasn't easy being a Language Teacher, he thought as he left his office for his next class. Especially being the _only_ Language Teacher. Every day was filled with marking essays, essays and more essays. He hadn't even had time for a lunch break. Of course, he could stop giving them essays for once, but he enjoyed holding at least the power of giving homework over his students. His classroom was the only place where he could hold power. Galadriel held the power everywhere else.

Celeborn started up the spiral staircase and wondered how Galadriel managed to be Aesthetics Head. Galadriel juggled Home Economics, Performing Arts, Art and Design, Counselling and cooking for the entire school, and she was still sane. But then, Galadriel was a multi-tasking marvel. Not that it was good being married to one, but still...he could hardly complain.

On level four he was jostled and overtaken by a large crowd of students – his students no less. They were having a running race. At their age, if you would believe it. How childish. Celeborn sighed again, adjusted his load and made off after his students.

The race had been started by Anna and Van Helsing. So far, Anna was winning. Then she was overtaken by Van Helsing. Anna put on a further burst of speed and reached the classroom first. She leaned against the door frame to catch her breath and smirked triumphantly at Van Helsing as he finished second.

Van Helsing did not take kindly to being defeated. As Anna turned, he stuck his foot out and tripped her.

Anna shrieked and fell over. She pulled her face out of the tiling and saw Van Helsing at his seat, watching her with the ghost of a mocking smile at the corner of his mouth. A boiling anger welled up in her. Scooping up her books with one hand, she made a fist of the other and swung it at Van Helsing. Van Helsing calmly swept his hat off his head and blocked Anna's punch. The hat got severely dented.

Carl arrived, panting. "Guys! Stop it! Anna, if you punch Van Helsing you'll get detention!"

"I don't care," snapped Anna through gritted teeth as another punch was blocked by the now crumpled hat.

Celeborn came last of all as the rest of the class filed in before him. "What is this?" he gasped as he set his books down on the teacher's desk.

Van Helsing was momentarily distracted by Celeborn's exclamation, and Anna succeeded in punching him in the nose. Van Helsing reeled backward. Anna retracted her bloody fist and looked exultant.

Celeborn hurried over and made his expression stern and forbidding. "Young lady," he began, "did you know that fighting is Not Allowed?"

Anna nodded innocently.

"And you still punched him?"

Anna succeeded in maintaining the innocent look.

"Anna Valerious, you will get detention! Tonight! At 9.00 pm, for, erm, cutting the lawn grass."

Anna raised her eyebrows.

Celeborn turned his attention to Van Helsing and his nosebleed. "Do you need to go to the sick bay?"

"No!" seethed Van Helsing, who was trying to stem the flow. "I'm perfectly all right!"

"If you say so," muttered Celeborn, turning away. "Anna, sit down."

Anna was not about to do so. She turned instead to Carl. "Carl," she said in a falsely pleasant tone, "would you please switch places with me? I really don't want to sit next to _him_."

Carl did not really like the idea, but he wasn't very keen to find out what Anna might do to him if he didn't comply. "Oh – okay."

They were in the process of switching seats, all of which Van Helsing ignored impassively, when Galadriel glided in. "Celeborn, darling," she said, "I know you haven't had lunch, so I packed some for you." She handed him a paper bag and flashed him a dazzling smile.

Celeborn stared at the bag. "Oh. Thank you."

Galadriel smiled again and turned to leave, but she froze abruptly. Anna held her breath as Galadriel turned back and locked eyes with her. "Anna," she said, and there was a measure of sternness in her voice, "you're not supposed to switch seats."

Anna remained mutinously silent.

Galadriel swept over. "You are to remain in this seating position for the rest of the four years you spend in this school, unless we see it fit to switch your seats. Now, change back with Carl, dear."

"But..." began Anna.

Galadriel sent a numbing stare into Anna's eyes, which bore through her retinas and set her optical nerves jangling. "No buts. They're for sitting on. And you'd do very well, Anna dear, to sit down in your proper place."

Anna felt herself move mechanically and sit down again next to Van Helsing, who had replaced the hat and was now effectively expressionless. Galadriel smiled. "That's a good girl." Then she swept out of the room.

Van Helsing raised the brim of his hat with one finger and eyed Anna suspiciously. Anna continued staring at the whiteboard for a few more seconds. Then she suddenly snapped back into her normal state and glared back.

Van Helsing decided that it was not worth bothering about and let the hat brim drop.

Celeborn was talking. "And for starters you will do an Introductory Term Essay."

He was interrupted by a loud outcry of groans. "Oh please," moaned Holly. "We've already had one essay today!"

Celeborn was adamant. "Then take a second one. Besides," here he looked slightly like his wife, "ITEs are _easy_ compared to what you're going to have for the rest of the year."

Trouble, Grub and Chix gulped in unison.

"In this essay," went on Celeborn, "you will introduce yourself. You can write about anything related to yourself, such as your likes and dislikes, your family, your height or your opinions on organic lettucino. As I said, it's _very_ easy. Start. I said start. START!"

Achilles made a very big show of pulling out his foolscap. He considered filling this one with more swear words, but decided that Celeborn might assume he was introducing himself. He would just have to slog through this one.

Artemis thought about it. He might as well let Celeborn know what he was dealing with.

_I am Artemis Fowl the Second._

And more.

_I am Irish, but I have the highest tested IQ in the whole of Europe. Besides that, I come from a family of rich and powerful persons. The Fowl family is among one of the top ten richest families in Ireland – a fact that they have much to thank me for._

So far, so good.

Lili Frond was delighted. For once here was something her bimbotic brain could comprehend. She picked up her bright pink pen, decorated at the top with a bright pink pompom, and began to scrawl over the paper in bright pink glittery ink.

_hi, im Lili Frond. i guess im like pretty, tho my mom always says i should be modets but i dun care. oh yeah and sum ppl like that girl Holly Short always calling me a bimbo dun think its like a nice thing to call ppl but theres a like nice song to go wih it. dun think i want to rite it here tho. yeah and im blonde and i loooooooove makeup. before i came here i bought this set of pink eyeshadow and it was like really cool and now its my fav eyeshadow and its like so cheap so i like went and bought ten of them._

Haldir glanced over at her paper, read the first line and blanched. Five grammar mistakes later he reeled shellshocked back to his own paper.

The French Revolution were again writing fairly similar compositions. They mainly went:

_Bonjour! I am (name), a proud member of Les Revolutionaires français. I have one mission in life, and that is to uphold the Republic of France! Dear reader, please do join me in this battle, s'il vous plait? I assure you it is a glorious and justifiable cause._

With the exception of Gavroche, who was again drawing a comic. Being a _gamin_ meant that you weren't exactly literate.

The Language Arts lesson dragged on. Finally Celeborn collected the essays. They were a varied mix from an English thesis (Hermione's) to an anthology of drinking song (Jack Sparrow's) to a poetical comparison of stars to earthbound beings (Arwen's) to Gavroche's comics. Celeborn, perfectly unaware of the horrors waiting to ambush him in that innocent stack of paper, smiled and dismissed the class.

The next lesson was Defence Skills, which was in the gym. The first-year class trudged across the field towards the low building. The moment they were out of the school building, Lili whipped out her handphone and started nattering away.

As she stepped into the spacious gym, something struck her hard on the wrist. Lili gasped as her handphone went flying, inadvertently reaching out for it. However, a hand the size of a shovel snatched it out of the air before her. Lili stared as a veritable giant switched off the phone, snapped it shut and handed it back to her with a politeness that was hard to relate to the man's size.

"No mobile phones," boomed the tall man, smiling down like a shark grinning at a petrified fish fry. He turned to the rest of the class. "I am Domovoi Butler. Welcome to Defence Skills class."

They followed him over the long polished stretch of wooden floor and obediently fell into a straight line in front of him. Butler waited till they were at attention, before speaking again. "In this class, you will learn what you need to know about combat, with weaponry or hand-to-hand. Furthermore, this is the only class in which you are allowed to beat people up, so you are permitted to let loose within the limits of not killing anyone."

Anna thought that was an excellent idea. Cosette began to tremble.

"And today's topic," finished Butler, "is Taekwondo."

What followed was an in-depth instruction on Taekwondo basics – punching, kicking, blocking techniques. Cosette overbalanced twice, Grub five times. Neither Helen nor Lili did very much.

Then came the moment many of them had been waiting for – and many not. "Learning techniques is one thing. Using them on someone else is another." Butler grinned at them again. "Get into groups of three, according to the seating positions in your classroom. I am setting you against your deskmates."

Anna and Van Helsing faced off across a blue gym mat. Carl had wisely decided to shrink into the nearest corner and watched the battle with growing apprehension.

Anna started it. In a flying kick she struck her heel towards Van Helsing's neck. Van Helsing ducked that, and shot his foot out to trip Anna as she landed. Anna stumbled, and he flung her across the mat. Anna regained her balance expertly, flipping to her feet, and launched a series of quick sharp blows, all of which Van Helsing blocked effectively. Anna screamed in frustration and leapt at him, fists at the ready. Van Helsing caught her before she hit him, however, and locked one arm around her neck, strangling her. Anna gasped for air and clawed viciously at his face to make him release her.

"It's not exactly taekwondo, you realise."

Butler was standing over them with a curious expression. Anna hurriedly retracted her hands. Van Helsing hurriedly removed his arm from Anna's neck.

"Some very interesting moves there," observed Butler nonchalantly. "Although, I _was_ teaching you taekwondo. I hope you'll try to stick to that."

Van Helsing and Anna nodded speechlessly. Butler nodded to them and left. Carl emerged from his hiding place. "Will that stop you from trying to kill each other?"

"Don't think it will," snarled Anna.

"I was expecting that," sighed Van Helsing, as he blocked the incoming punch.

Further on, Legolas was pounding Paris into the wall. (As the first-years would later realise, it was testimony to Butler's considerable power that he was able to retrieve the two of them from the sick bay.) Helen might have noticed, but she was at the moment more interested in her nails.

"Had enough, pretty boy?" sneered Legolas, dangling Paris by his hair.

"Let me go!" screamed Paris, whose nose was bleeding.

"Let him go," said a voice from behind them.

Legolas turned. Someone was standing behind him, eyes serious and warning, hands clenched in fists. "Let him go," repeated the intervener.

"Hector..." gasped Paris, "brother...help!"

Legolas dropped Paris and took up a threatening position. "You keep your nose out of my business. Get back to your group."

Hector stood his ground. "If you lay a finger on my brother you will pay."

"And how?" mocked Legolas.

Hector raised his fists and calmly boxed the elf's ears. A few sound blows sent Legolas reeling. He sank to the ground, clutching his head.

"Thanks, Hector," mumbled Paris through his nosebleed.

Without warning, Hector spun around and grabbed Paris by his collar. Pushing his face towards his brother's till they were almost nose-to-nose, Hector hissed: "You are an embarrassment to our family. Get a backbone, Paris. Someday I might get sick of standing up for you when you don't have the guts to do it for yourself." He dropped Paris at Helen's feet and strode back to his own group.

Paris groaned and sat up slowly, bones creaking audibly. Helen raised her eyes from her examination of her nails, looking faintly bemused. "What just happened?"

Elizabeth Swann spun around and aimed a punch at Jack Sparrow, who ducked it easily and caught her arm at the elbow. "You gotta improve on that, darlin'."

"Huh," muttered Elizabeth, twisting away and kneeing Will Turner in the stomach.

"Ow," responded Will. "Try picking on Jack for once, will you?"

"You're easier to hit," retorted Elizabeth, whacking him over the head.

Jack wandered up. "Try fighting back, lad. Clutching your stomach and moaning is not helping, savvy?"

Will decided he might be right, and stepped hard on Elizabeth's foot. Elizabeth shrieked in agony and proceeded to rain a volley of angry blows on Will's shoulders.

"Oh dear," said Jack. "When it comes to women _somehow_ my advice always goes wrong."

Butler, who was watching, sighed and shook his head. His students were getting less Taekwondo and more unorthodox.

"Try a roundhouse kick."

Holly obeyed, leaping up and spinning around, foot connecting with Éowyn's shin. Éowyn tried to grab it and twist, but missed.

"You're not supposed to kick that low," complained Éowyn, rubbing the sore spot. "It's _below_ the belt."

Holly regained her balance. "For someone my height," she retorted, "it's excusable."

Artemis was sitting cross-legged on the edge of the mat, meditating. "Are you going to practise?" Holly wanted to know.

"He doesn't dare," explained Éowyn. "He knows his taekwondo is pathetic."

Artemis opened his eyes. "Quite true," he replied coolly. "And so I will not risk my bodily health over it. I'd like to be left alone, thank you very much." He shut his eyes again and went on meditating.

Five seconds later, Artemis was lying sprawled on the other end of the mat. He had landed headfirst, and hence a large bruise was forming on his forehead. He sat up, wincing. Holly was dusting her hands off and looking self-satisfied. Éowyn was surprised, but not displeased. "Way to go, Holly."

"That was absolutely unnecessary," muttered Artemis, feeling his bruised forehead.

"On the contrary," smiled Holly, "it's all for your own good. Learning self-defence is important." She curled her fingers into a fist. "And you know, _lots _of practice makes perfect."

* * *

At 3.30 pm, it took Butler a long time to prise Holly off Artemis, remove the drunken Grantaire, bring the unconscious Cosette round, segregate Anna and Van Helsing and end the lesson. He had only one comment for them.

"This class is the first one in a long while, for which I think the no-killing-your-fellow-classmate rule is really required."

No one was very sure whether this was something to be pleased or disturbed about.

Butler heaved a sigh and dismissed them. In A&A&A Boarding School, school had ended for the day.

**End of Chapter**

_Next chapter coming..._**Curry and the Company of Heroines**


	8. Curry and the Company of Heroines

**A&A&A Boarding School**

Authoresses' Note: We have returned from our long convalescence from some particularly trying tests – especially that horrible French Dictée in Lydia's Examen ("Merde!" says Lydia). So – we have good news and bad news.

Good news – we are fast approaching a hundred reviews! And thank you to the people who have made this possible – Kit Cloudkicker (not that we get your point, but no offence intended), southerngirl4615 (we thank you for your kind concern), Asha Ice (Legolas wa bakayaru des!), Manveri Mirkiel (of course we do, lissehondonya. We live to annoy thee. What a lot of grammar mistakes), kismet truths (what a lot of lovely long reviews! We really must go review House of Assassins...Nous aimons la glace de pomme de terre!), Celias23, codefun (pinch n' poke), Fan of Fanfic (it could be done. Yes, it could...), Shuize (Lydia says it's Carmeanna, not Carmianna – there's a difference – lots of lovely reviews!), Aurora (maybe, maybe), Crow (we can scarcely believe any parent would prevent their child from reading Artemis Fowl. It is blasphemy. We do so pity you...), I AM EOWYN, and Cerse (long hair, girly, shallow...that must mean Legolas is a bishounen. Right, now we hate them.)

Bad news – From 1st October onwards, we are not to touch till the EOY (or secret codeword for exams.) are over on the 22nd October. We are so sorry, but we have to study. Hopefully none of you will drift away and forget about our poor fanfic in the long meantime. Please stay true, and forget not. On the 22nd, seek us once more. We will be waiting. Till then_...... namarie......_

**8. Curry and the Company of Heroines**

The dining hall was filled with people relaxing after the first day of school. Anna wove through the crowd towards the coffee machine, which had a long queue. She slipped into line and bumped into someone else also trying to get in line. It was Van Helsing.

Anna sniffed, tossed her head and went off to the fruit juice machine. She got into line. A few seconds passed, as a growing suspicion made itself known in Anna's head until she could not bear it. She spun around and came face to face with Van Helsing. Again.

"Are you stalking me?" she demanded.

"Who's stalking you?"

"You! First I see you at the coffee machine, then I leave, then _you_ come _here_... what're you doing if you're not stalking me?"

"I don't know what you're talking about. The queue at the coffee machine was too long."

"Huh!"

"Fine! I'll go somewhere else, if it makes you happy." Which was intended as a sarcastic comment. Van Helsing swept off and disappeared into the crowd. Anna left the fruit juice queue too, to make sure.

She had just joined the queue for lemon tea when she caught sight of Van Helsing wandering in her direction. Anna nearly shrieked in frustration. "I've had enough! STOP. STALKING. ME!" she yelled at Van Helsing and stomped off, determined to keep away from the drinks machines after that.

"Are you stalking her?" asked Éomer, who was passing.

"No," said the extremely bewildered Van Helsing. "She's raving mad, you know."

Éomer shook his head. "I've got a sister, so I think I know what you mean." He wandered off, humming to himself.

Anna sat down at a table, fuming inwardly. She glanced around to check Van Helsing wasn't anywhere near, and caught sight of Holly and Éowyn chatting nearby. And she was struck by a sudden idea.

"Hello," she said, going over to them.

The two girls looked up. They knew Anna Valerious by sight, and greeted her accordingly.

"I have a proposition," began Anna.

"Mm?"

"Let's set up a gang."

There was an astonished silence. Then Éowyn said with a slightly admonishing tone, "You mean a clique."

Anna shrugged. "Clique, gang, they're all the same. Anyway, we should set up a ga – um, clique for girls like us. As in, girls who don't feel like behaving like proper young ladies."

"I think I see what you mean," said Holly.

Anna went on. "You might call it, well, tomboys, sort of. We'll be the founding members."

"Sure," agreed Éowyn.

"We need rules, though," added Holly as an afterthought. "We must only allow girls with proper qualifications to join. For example, we shouldn't let Lili Frond join."

Éowyn shuddered. "Definitely not. Only girls who are tough and proud of it. And everyone in the clique should vote on whether someone can join or not."

"And no boys," finished Anna.

"Oh, certainly," confirmed Éowyn. "No boys."

"Let's look for other members," suggested Holly.

They thought about it for a long time. "Not Lili, for sure," mused Holly. "Hermione's a nerd...How about Arwen?"

"Too caught up in that boyfriend of hers," argued Anna. "She might want him to join, and then..."

"Not Arwen then. The Trojan girls?"

"Nah. Not enough guts. And that Helen hasn't enough brains either."

"What about the French girls? Cosette's a coward, but the Thénardier girl..."

"Eponine? Hey, that's a good idea!"

They looked at each other. "Okay," said Anna finally, "we ask Eponine. Any others?"

"Elizabeth Swann."

"She's not bad, you know. She can shoot pretty well."

"And she excels at beating up Will Turner."

"Good. We ask Elizabeth too. Okay, let's get on it."

Eponine was twirling an empty coffee mug on her finger and watching Marius Pontmercy stroll about the dining room with a look of longing on her face. She started when the other three approached her.

"We have a proposition," began Anna, a tad unoriginally. "We have a clique, and we'd like you to join."

Eponine gave them a suspicious look. "_Pourquoi_? What's this clique about?"

"Hm." The three considered. "Erm, being tomboys," suggested Anna. "Having guts. Beating up boys who pick on us. That sort of thing."

The French girl considered. "Is the Lark in it?"

"The Lark?"

"Cosette. She calls herself that. Stupid name, if you ask me."

"No, she isn't. She's a scaredy-cat."

Eponine brightened visibly. "_Bien_. I'm in."

Holly and Éowyn gave each other high fives. "Great. Let's go find Elizabeth."

Elizabeth was curled up in a corner like a large cat half-asleep. She sat up and stretched when the four girls came over. "Hello. You want anything?"

"We have a proposition," repeated Anna, for lack of anything better to say. "We have this clique with the four of us in it, and we're inviting you to join."

Elizabeth gazed up at them with her large eyes. "So, what do we do in this clique?"

Éowyn repeated most of what they had told Eponine.

Elizabeth yawned. "Sounds fun. You can count me in."

The newly gathered clique sat on the window seat and discussed their newfound association.

"We should give it a name," said Elizabeth.

"Girls' Gang?" suggested Anna.

"Too general. And it's a clique," admonished Éowyn.

"Tomboys' Clique?"

"Eeek."

"The Clique of, erm, Shieldmaidens?"

"Éowyn, not all of us are shieldmaidens."

"The Clique of Conqueresses!"

"The _Company_ of Conqueresses!"

"There is no such word as conqueresses."

"You sound like Hermione Granger. How about the Company of Heroines?"

There was a silence as the five realised that was actually a good idea.

"The Company of Heroines," said Anna finally, "isn't a bad name."

"So," said Holly. "We're the Company of Heroines?"

"Yeah."

"I agree too."

"Unanimously."

"I second that."

"I...I _third _that."

"Eponine!"

"Sorry."

The Company of Heroines high-fived each other and went off to spend the rest of the afternoon climbing trees in the school field.

They only returned when dusk was settling over the damp grass and tempting smells were beginning to waft out of the dining hall windows. Galadriel was ladling hot chicken curry into the bowls of hungry students. There was also a large stack of paper at the head of the first-year table. Closer examination revealed it to be the Introductory Term Essays, marked and returned. People around the table were examining their essays with varying degrees of trepidation or upset.

Lili Frond stared at her paper. Celeborn had apparently given up marking by the first paragraph with its ten-mistakes-per-sentence rate and had summed up his comments in twelve red words at the bottom of the page.

THIS IS NOTHING BUT INSUFFERABLY ABOMINABLE DRIVEL. IMPROVE YOUR GRAMMAR. OR. ELSE.

Somehow, Lili didn't exactly mind. To be specific, she was more puzzled than angry, mainly because she was still trying to figure out what 'abominable' meant. She had the vague impression it was something negative, but that was about it.

Malfoy picked up his paper and groaned inwardly. 12/20. Looking down, he saw Granger's paper on the top of the pile. No surprises there. But he still couldn't help feeling the twinge of envy at the 18 ½ in red ink and neatly circled.

"Stop peeping at other people's marks, Malfoy." A hand snatched the paper out from under his nose. Malfoy sniffed and looked down his nose at the Muggle girl, turning his mind over for a testy reply, but she was no longer looking at him. Hermione seemed to have entirely forgotten her own advice and was staring openmouthed at the paper that had been previously covered by hers.

"Impossible..." she breathed.

Ron peered over her shoulder. "What's wrong? So Fowl got 18 ½ too, so what? Does it matter?"

"Of course it does," snapped Hermione, picking up Artemis's paper and leafing through it. "You wouldn't understand. You've never been top in _anything_."

"Hermione," said Harry warningly, "you really shouldn't..."

"I believe that's mine."

Hermione glanced up. Artemis Fowl fixed her with his own icy glare. Hermione gave an exclamation of frustration, threw the paper at him and stomped off. Harry and Ron followed, throwing somewhat apologetic glances at Artemis. Malfoy smirked to himself and left to fetch some curry.

"You know what?" mumbled Merry through a mouthful of curry as they went down the aisle carrying their bowls – he and Pippin didn't wait till they were seated before they began eating – "we should set up a – an – "

"Association?" suggested Pippin.

"Wow." Merry considered. "You know that word? I didn't know you knew anything over five syllables."

"Precious few words, actually," replied Pippin. "I do know encyclopaedia, that's about – "

"Anyway," said Frodo hurriedly, "what sort of association?"

Merry was glad of the distraction. "The six of us – " he waved his hand vaguely to indicate the four hobbits, Mulch and Gimli, and tipping some curry unknowingly onto Sam's shoes along the way, " – can form an association of short people."

Gimli wanted to mention that compared to the hobbits, he wasn't relatively short, but he decided it might be unkind. "So we, er, short people can look out for each other?"

"Yeah!" chorused Merry and Pippin in unison.

"Aah," supplemented Mulch.

"Let's call ourselves the Short Alliance," suggested Frodo.

"Cool," said Pippin. "Yeah, let's."

The Short Alliance continued on down the aisle in search for a seat – quite ignorant of the fact that danger awaited them at the aisle's end – in the form of Legolas.

It didn't take very long to happen. Legolas came towards them, his own bowl of curry cupped in his hands. He didn't see them; he was concentrating on getting to the empty seat beside Helen before Paris did. The Short Alliance didn't see him either. And so Legolas and Gimli collided.

Gimli stumbled. Legolas, being taller and lighter, tripped. Both of their curry bowls flew up into the air, revolving slowly, ominously, before coming down with certain catastrophe. The people around them had barely enough time to scat before the hot curry landed, with a traumatizing _splat_, on the elf and the dwarf.

Everyone froze.

In the silence, curry dripped down onto the floor. Chicken lumps slid greasily down Gimli's front. Legolas was completely drenched. The curry had given his blonde locks an unappetizing muddy brown shade, and his originally spotless tunic was unquestionably ruined. The sauce, however, had done nothing to mask the wrath upon his face.

In a flash, he had grabbed Gimli's shirt front and attempted to drag him up by his collar. Three things worked against him, however: firstly Gimli's mighty struggles, secondly the grease from the curry, thirdly Gimli's rather heavy weight, so he gave up on that. By that time Gimli had retrieved his senses, and a brutal exchange of blows took place.

The hobbits were too terrified to do anything. Mulch considered risking his skin to help. Legolas was over twice his height – but then, Gimli was after all his friend. He tentatively threw himself into the fray, so as to speak, but was thrown out of it into a bench quite as quickly by Legolas's elbow. Mulch rubbed his sore hip and contemplated new strategies. He decided it might be time to use his major weapon.

Outside the dining hall, Root and Vinyáya were walking towards dinner after a long meeting with Butler to discuss tested topics for Physical Education. Root put his hand on the door handle. He was about to open the door when he thought of something and turned back to tell Vinyáya. "How about we switch the weightage to thirty percent so that..."

It was at that moment that Legolas was blasted off Gimli and into Root's face by a massive ball of odorous air, which dissolved over the two of them a nanosecond later.

For the second time in so many seconds, everyone froze.

Root shoved Legolas off him and rose to his majestic height of slightly over a metre. His face was beautifully suffused and looked liable to rupture any moment. In a voice dreadful to all who were listening, he demanded: "Who did this?"

Fingers were pointed. Quite a few were pointed at the hobbits, but the majority were aimed at Legolas, Mulch and Gimli. This confirmed what Root had gathered before being hit.

"You three," he growled, breathing heavily through his nostrils, "will have detention. I believe Professor Celeborn has already one student on detention tonight. Well, you will join her."

The matter dealt with, Commander Root spun abruptly on his booted heel and strode, his face still pulsing crimson, to his seat at the teachers' table. The three accused stared after him in shock. Paris smirked from his seat beside Helen. The hobbits trembled. And Legolas, Mulch and Gimli decided this was none too good.

* * *

Commander Root strode to and fro before his four detainees, like a general reviewing his troops. "You will be cutting the lawn grass." Legolas found a pair of garden shears shoved into his hand. "You will cut the area between the walls and the hedge." Root waved his arm at the general area. "Each grass blade is to be exactly five centimetres high."

The four of them stared. "Exactly five centimetres?" managed Anna finally.

"To the very centimetre." Root whipped out a small ruler and a torchlight. "I will personally measure your work." He handed each of them small plastic rulers and torchlights. "Now. Start work."

It was backbreaking. They could barely see apart from the torchlight beams, and even then it was impossible to cut the grass according to Root's requirements. The night was velvety, almost choking, and with it came an insupportable amount of mosquitoes. Gimli slapped at them in vain, and wearily chopped away at the stubborn grass. Beside him, he thought he could hear Mulch chomping away at the unfortunate mosquitoes who attended him.

Commander Root plonked his ruler down beside Anna's newly-cut grass and inspected it. "Still one and a half centimetres too high," he said critically, and got up to go inspect Legolas. Anna stared after him in disbelief at this injustice. "I can't believe this," she hissed. Grass blades sprayed from the vicious teeth of her shears like drops of green blood.

It was nearly eleven before Root pronounced himself satisfied with the height of the lawn grass. The four dragged their tired selves back to bed, not even bothering to change into nightclothes. In the girls' dormitory, Anna kicked off her boots and fell back on her bed, grumbling.

"So how was it?" asked Eponine sleepily, roused by the clunking of boots on floor.

"He made us cut the grass," complained Anna. "_Exactly_ five centimetres. He measured it with a _ruler_, would you believe it?"

Eponine muttered something unintelligible and went back to sleep.

Anna stared at the ceiling, running the events of her first full day at school through her head. Van Helsing. The Company of Heroines. Five-centimetre-tall grass. She shut her eyes and let her body fall through layers of sleepiness.

What with all she had been through that day, it didn't take her long to go to sleep altogether.

**End of Chapter**

_Next chapter coming ... _**Magic and McGonagall**


	9. Magic and McGonagall

**A&A&A Boarding School**

Authoresses' Note: HEY! WE'RE BACK! MISS US?

Guess not. Rukuelle smacks Lydia for being so hyper. But naturally, since Rukuelle's exams are strictly not over, so she's not very happy with her sister's new freedom...

Anyhow, to thank the reviewers for the reviews that have accumulated in our long absence: southerngirl4615 (you're most supportive, thanks), Fan of Fanfic (We do think Pippin is intelligent. Just that Merry happens to think otherwise), gavvie (great you love 'Ponine), hotdogfish, Aurora GJ, me who else, Cerse Liminara (and it is bien. Lydia IS a Frenchie after all, you know), codefun (you got a problem with that, o naughty one?), Manveri Mirkiel (Hello, lissenya, says Lydia. I know what you do for GB; let's see. I'll let you off after Chapter 10. How's that, lissenya?), I AM EOWYN, Lydia's Angel (hope you liked the Verona photos), Asha Ice (when did we _ever_ say it was a school for magic. Did we _ever_? Legolas will be punished for your ignorance), kismet (yes, teachers. Update HoA!), shuize (fwee!), sine, Vionny (we thank thee. You have no idea what trouble we go to with the alliteration), reicheru, Chermainey (nice you came!), and FlameTalon (computers love doing that, don't they?)

There has been a positive flood of Lydia's classmates' reviews (love you th13rteeners! says Lydia). Rukuelle's classmates never read – but not surprising, since they are immature and barely literate. Lydia said that, by the way.

We know we've been away for honest ages, and we're sorry we have only this short chapter to satisfy you with, but Lydia's been up typing for three hours straight to get this done by the 22nd. So, just read.

**9. Magic and McGonagall**

Tuesday morning, everyone decided to resign themselves to having for the rest of the school year, the French Revolution's _reveille de matin_ for an alarm clock.

"Do you hear the people sing? Singing the song of angry men!"

"_Mon dieu_," moaned Eponine, "you can even hear them in our dormitory! Do they never know when to shut up?"

Elizabeth buried her head in her pillows and moaned.

Still rather tired from yesterday, the students reluctantly dragged themselves out of bed. Tousled and heavy-eyed, they stumbled towards the bathrooms to get themselves ready for a new day of torture at the hands of their unfeeling mentors.

"What's first subject?" yawned Harry over his bowl of cornflakes. He was desperately tired, but he had to use one arm to keep Ron from falling into the bowl of milk out of sheer sleepiness.

Hermione, who was annoyingly bright and cheery, glanced at the neatly filed, highlighted and annotated timetable. "Magic. That's great."

Ron made a noise. It could have been anything from "Pfft" to "Mmfle".

After everyone had finished their cereal and milk (except Lili, who complained the milk wasn't low-fat) they joined the crushing exodus towards the classrooms. Anna ran a hand over her eyes and focused angrily on a certain black leather hat that was bobbing amongst the crowd.

"Good morning," said Carl – another of those bright, cheery souls so inspired at the thought of early morning education that they annoy everyone else who isn't. His deskmates were suitably annoyed.

"Not a good morning," muttered Van Helsing, hat in its usual position of obscuring his face.

Anna snorted and rolled her eyes.

There was a ceasing of murmurs as Professor McGonagall strode in, robes billowing dramatically as usual. Professor McGonagall did not look pleased with early morning education either. But then she did not look pleased most of the time.

The class greeted her in subdued tones and sat down. Hermione was staring at Professor McGonagall expectantly and breathing in excitement. Harry was playing with his quill tip absent-mindedly. Ron was stoning.

"I will be teaching you different forms of magic this year," said Professor McGonagall – not looking pleased either, especially since she was the only one teaching magic with no help at all. "Magic is something very useful to most of you."

Achilles, ever the party pooper, put up his hand. "What if some of us can't do magic?"

Professor McGonagall looked down her nose at him. "_I _will decide whether you can do magic or not." She reached behind her and drew out an object. It was a large crystal globe, with a glowing centre emitting faint electrical rays. When it was in her hands, the electrical rays leapt out, brilliantly lemon yellow.

She strode over to the first desk and plonked the globe in front of a rather nervous Harry. "Put your hand on it," she commanded imperiously.

Harry stared at the slightly hypnotizing glow, and slowly touched the glassy surface.

Brilliant yellow rays shot out from the centre, shining through the globe. Harry jerked back in shock. The light faded, and there were only the pale flickers.

Professor McGonagall was gazing at him critically. "Wizarding magic. Try a spell, Potter."

Harry took out his wand. Up till now he had kept it in his pocket, as he had seen no need to use it. He held it before him, and tried to recall a spell. "Er. Um. _Expecto patronum_!"

A silver stag shimmered into being on the desk before him. Grub hiccupped in shock. Ron shot awake. Everyone else gaped.

"Very good," said Professor McGonagall at last. "Very good, Potter." She made a tick on the register she had brought along. "Now you, Weasley."

Ron gulped and touched the globe. The same thing happened, as with Harry.

"Spell," demanded Professor McGonagall.

Ron grasped his wand and chewed his lip in long thought. Eventually he stared at the desk and mumbled: "_Wingardium...leviosa_?"

Nothing happened. Professor McGonagall frowned. "_Concentration_, Weasley."

Ron glared at his wand. "_Wingardium leviosa_!"

His quill shot into the air and hung there. Ron breathed a sigh of relief under his carrot-shade flush.

Professor McGonagall made another tick. "Your turn, Granger."

Again the yellow reaction. Hermione tried to think of a good spell. That was the trouble with knowing so many – you couldn't decide which was the best one to show off.

Shield, thought Hermione. No, that's so last-year. Accio? Too simple. The tortoise one? Or maybe the one with the fish?

"_Prokaryus angolfus_!" she cried.

Her eraser disappeared into a puff of blue smoke and was replaced by a large goldfish bowl, complete with two fat goldfish bubbling in puzzlement behind the rounded glass walls. Hermione looked pleased with herself.

Professor McGonagall raised her eyebrows. "_Very_ good." She made another tick.

The globe travelled on down the row. Holly's touch turned the glow electric blue. She proved her magic gift by shielding herself. Éowyn had no magic (at which the globe stayed transparent with the usual flickers) but Artemis, most astonishingly, turned the globe silver – something he was, for once, visibly shocked by.

"Try something," advised Professor McGonagall, who was looking uncharacteristically impressed.

Artemis stared at the globe before him. What on earth could he do?

Concentrate. Make something happen. What? No idea. Just concentrate...

The globe rose slowly, hesitantly, into the air. Artemis's blue eyes held it, hovering, trembling. A lot of people stared.

Professor McGonagall plucked the ball out of mid-air before Artemis lost concentration and smashed it. "Very interesting, Fowl." Then in a low voice she added, "I've only seen one other magic like that before. Matilda Wormwood. Very interesting, your sort of magic."

Artemis blinked.

Van Helsing and Anna proved magic-less, but Carl, again astonishingly, turned the rays shimmering brown. Through a lot of effortful prayer he managed to colour the liquid in his water bottle red. Professor McGonagall nodded. "Holy magic. Indeed."

Grub, Trouble and Chix all had Fairy magic, though any sort of the craft was absent in Boromir, Faramir or Éomer. The globe travelled down the rows. The French Revolution was, unsurprisingly, without magic. Arwen's magic was deep gold.

"Elven magic," noted Professor McGonagall. "Yours is very strong."

Malfoy, as Harry expected, had wizardry, which he showed with the Serpent spell. Lili shrieked at the sight, and took much cajoling and reprimand before she would so much as put in effort to Shield herself. Haldir also had the deep gold elven magic.

Legolas had some. "But not very much," said Professor McGonagall sternly, almost as if it was his fault. "You won't be able to do much with it, but I shall put you down anyway." Legolas had mixed feelings about that. Paris didn't have any magic, and he looked forward to crowing over him. However, Helen had no magic either, and if that was so they would be in the same Magic class group. Legolas decided to settle that confusion later.

Achilles, as he had dryly expected, had no magic. Neither did Andromache. But Briseis, much to her great shock, was another with Holy Magic – although hers was lighter brown than Carl's – and she managed to cause a shining light from the ceiling by singing a hymn to Apollo. Briseis sat down as Professor McGonagall made a tick, looking still surprised but pleased.

Marius and Cosette had no magic. But Eponine crashed Cosette's pencil case rather viciously. The globe showed her magic to be yellow Wizardry. Eponine smirked as Cosette miserably picked up her pencils.

Will, to his great disappointment, had no magic. But then came the great surprise – Jack and Elizabeth actually had Wizardry.

"Wizardry!" exclaimed Elizabeth.

"Wizardry," muttered Jack. "Cool. Very cool, savvy."

The back row had no magic, but Professor McGonagall noted Frodo had a trickle of elven magic. Like Legolas, he probably couldn't do anything much with it. But it made Frodo very pleased.

To Sam's extreme amazement, the globe turned green flecked with gold at his touch. Professor McGonagall raised her eyebrows again. This class contained many – abnormalities.

"What...what do I do?" whispered Sam. "I mean, I don't know no magic. My old gaffer used to say..."

"Just try," said Professor McGonagall. Almost gently. Sam gave a start, stared at her, and then back at the globe. And stared. And stared. And stared.

Those with magic could feel the tension in the air – the magical tension. Sam was trying, trying very hard. And then it happened.

CRACK.

There was a tremor. With an enormous heave, long strangly things pushed themselves out of the floor – tree roots. The stem – or trunk – snaked up, long and green, and pushed right through the desktop, which offered no resistance and broke asunder. The trunk rose till the ceiling and cracked that open as it pushed through. Large pieces of ceiling plaster fell all around, and they could see the open sky above. So they had an excellent view when the stem sprouted branches, upon which spread leaves – and no ordinary leaves, but spangled silver and gleaming gold. And then golden flowers blossomed into being upon the twigs, like breaths, like butterflies, like quivering stars.

The whole room was silent.

"A mallorn," breathed Arwen into the quiet.

Sam was gaping. He had no idea how he had just made a full-grown tree destroy the classroom ceiling.

Professor McGonagall was probably undergoing the greatest emotional display upon her face in a long time. She was visibly shocked, visibly unnerved, visibly impressed and perhaps even visibly proud. "Good, Sam," she said quietly. "Good."

Golden blossoms detached themselves from their cradles and fell sweetly like whispers onto desks and books.

Professor McGonagall smiled at Sam – an extreme compliment – and tried not to look at the ceiling. "Those with Wizardry and without wands, follow me. Sam, perhaps you'd like to come with me to see the Lady Galadriel about your – magic." She turned upon her heel abruptly and became her normal critical self again. She scribbled a spell on the board for those with magic and passed a stack of paper to those without. "With magic, follow the directions according to your own talents. Those without, do your homework and study Wiccan tribal voodoo. Don't cause _any_ trouble at all. Or else." Then she swept out of the room, the students following, Sam meekly at the rear.

* * *

"It's so _cool_!" exclaimed Pippin for the sixth time.

"What did Galadriel say, Sam?" Frodo wanted to know.

Sam shook his head. He preferred to keep his conversation with the Lady confidential, even from his dearest friend.

"It's so _cool_!" repeated Pippin.

Jack caught up with them. He was flipping his new wand expertly between his fingers. "Hey, lad. You've got some bonny flowers over there."

"That was amazing," gushed Hermione from behind Frodo. "I mean, I've never seen _anything _like that."

"_Vanya_," sighed Arwen.

"It's so _cool_!" regurgitated Pippin.

"Hey, kid," called Achilles. "Great job with destroying the classroom."

"Tu es trés intelligente," complimented Feuilly.

"Bloody brilliant," agreed Ron.

"Absolutely fantastic," stated Éowyn.

"You're really brave," added Anna. "Imagine taking private lessons from _Galadriel_, urgh."

"Yo dude!" shouted Faramir. "That was way cool, man. You rock."

"It's so _cool_!" reiterated Pippin.

Merry clapped a hand over the younger hobbit's mouth. "I think, Peregrin Took, that you've said enough. Move those legs of yours before we're late for Aesthetics."

"Aesthetics again," moaned Holly. "I could die."

Sam said nothing. He was still extremely bewildered over all the attention and popularity he had suddenly gained. It was about as easy to fathom as the growing of that mallorn. Well, he should enjoy it while it lasted. Like his old gaffer had said, take things as they come. You never know when they go.

**End of Chapter**

_Next chapter coming..._**Performing Arts and the Phantom of the Opera**


	10. Performing Arts and the Phantom of the O...

**A&A&A Boarding School**

Authoresses' Note: Rukuelle would like to stress that the long delay is not her fault. Not at all. To reinforce that idea she will force Lydia to make a confession.

(in which Lydia Mendiant takes the stand)

Lydia speaks: Explanation – Drama Night. Elaboration – For the first week, we had Drama Night, and I was lead actress. So I was kind of busy, and also emotionally occupied. Drama Night ended on Friday. The good thing was that we won. The bad thing was that I lost Nicole Zhang, my character, and it was like I had lost a very important part of me. So I spent the weekend grieving. It was only until now that I started working. So sorry. Really sorry.

(in which Rukuelle drags Lydia off)

Anyway, that's why we weren't updating even though exams are now over. So we shall thank our reviewers like we always do... gavvie, disneyluver (we are so very pleased you gave us such a lot of lovely long reviews, but we cannot spare Legolas for your sake. Don't ask; long story. However rest assured that nothing shall happen to him till Wednesday. Then that will be bad), Dark Borg Drone, Manveri Mirkiel (know, lissehondonya, that your tenure is over. Now you only owe us one review per chapter. Be happy, AV), Asha Ice (yes, poor Maia. We worshipped her too), Fan of Fanfic (yes, we think Sam is an often overshadowed hobbit, mainly the fault of Frodo's big blue eyes), Aurora, naughtyness, hotdogfish, I AM EOWYN (it was actually Tu es bonne ecrivain, but we mean no offence. Just that Lydia loves being an intellectual snob – a deplorable flaw of her character), sine, Adele Starminster, vionny, Tsuki Yume (we think you mean by that Legolas. Again, long story. And we are sorry about the bishounen thing; we know next to nothing about manga or whatnot, and all we state is hearsay. We won't talk about it anymore, if it makes you unhappy), and surf all day and do the hula.

We know this chapter is probably not up to standards, but we needed to get some things straight. Sorry.

**10. Performing Arts and the Phantom of the Opera**

By the time they found the Performing Arts classroom, everyone had realised exactly how bad the combination of Captain Jack Sparrow and a wand was. Since there was no rule against using magic in the corridors, Jack had made use of his new weapon to frizz Gavroche, kill several innocent flies, turn the walls of Home Econs. violent purple as he passed, crack several major pillars and leave a trail of immense destruction from the Magic classroom to the Aesthetics block. The worst thing was he had no idea what he was doing, and hence that made it more fun for him.

"Put away your wand, Jack dear," said Galadriel gently, when they entered the classroom. Jack was thinking of an impertinent remark, but then he recalled what had happened to Van Helsing and Anna the previous day, and complied grudgingly.

The Performing Arts classroom was rather unlike the other rooms, in the fact that the wall was mirrored and there were no desks. The chairs had been replaced by different coloured cushions – although still arranged three-by-three, so there was no chance of changing cushion partners. With great puzzlement, the class greeted Galadriel and lowered themselves cautiously onto the cushions.

Galadriel gave her trademark eerie smile, and began. "Performing Arts consists of Music, Dance and Drama. Later in the year you will be learning mainly Dance," at which several boys (and not a few girls) turned a shade paler, "but at the moment we shall concentrate on your first Major Production, which will be this Sunday."

Major Production? thought several people simultaneously.

"Every first-year class," went on Galadriel by way of explanation, "on Orientation Night, or the Sunday of the first week, has to put up a performance for the rest of the school."

There came from the back of the class something that sounded like a muffled shriek of horror. Galadriel was non-plussed. "And of course, who better to direct each class's performance than me?"

Why am I not surprised? thought Anna in despair.

"And I also get to decide," continued Galadriel blithely, "what performance you shall put up. And this time, we shall be putting up..."

Everyone held their breaths. They all had a feeling that this was not the best of ideas.

Galadriel picked up a stack of scripts and displayed the cover of the topmost one. "The Phantom of the Opera."

There was a shocked silence, in which every single member of the class could not help but gape.

Galadriel merely smiled again and began handing out the scripts. "Don't look so surprised, dears. It really is a wonderful musical."

After skimming through his copy, Achilles looked up in disgust. "We're doing _this_?"

Galadriel fixed him with the familiar Look. "You won't say no, will you? Because you're _not_ to."

Naturally, not even Achilles could have refused her at that point.

"There are three main roles," went on Galadriel, "which I shall be holding auditions for today. Yes, auditions." She turned and wrote three names on the board. "Christine, Raoul, and the Phantom. Let's audition the girls for Christine first, shall we?"

"Erm, what's Christine about?" asked Éowyn guardedly.

"Christine." Galadriel thought. "Christine is a sweet, innocent, ballet girl who is propelled to immense fame by her diabolical music teacher the Phantom."

Éowyn frowned. "Oh. Not for me."

"Now," went on Galadriel, "you can either volunteer yourselves, or sabo—_nominate_ your peers. Yes."

Lili Frond shot her hand up. "I wanna nom...nomi...erm, _choose_ myself, 'cos I'm, like, really perfect for the role!"

Haldir and Malfoy groaned in unison and rolled their eyes at the ceiling.

"I nominate Helen," exclaimed Legolas and Paris simultaneously. Glares followed.

"I nominate Arwen," called Aragorn.

"Good choice, dear," beamed Galadriel, and wrote Arwen's name down.

"I nominate Briseis!" shouted Achilles from the back.

"Really," gasped Briseis, "I really don't think I should...well...I _can't_..."

"You can," Andromache assured her.

"I nominate Elizabeth," said Will.

"Second that, savvy!" added Jack.

Elizabeth turned on them. "How _dare_ you?"

Jack shrugged. "Come on. You're good for it, savvy?"

Elizabeth glared at her two deskmates. "You are so in for it. I think I'll kill you later."

Cosette thought: If I am chosen, and then Marius becomes Raoul, well, then... "I nominate myself," she spoke up.

Eponine saw through her plan immediately. "I nominate myself too!" she cried.

Galadriel wrote down the last two names. "Any more? No? Very well. We shall begin auditioning. Nominees, please get ready."

"What do we do?" asked Briseis nervously.

"Christine must be able to sing," explained Galadriel. "So you will sing us a song, preferably with great expression like an actress should, and the class will vote."

"Any song?"

"Any song. Lili, since you volunteered yourself first, you may begin."

Lili bounced up and tried to think of a good song that would show off her vocals. She pounced on the nearest one she could think of, and opened her mouth to sing, accompanying it with the appropriate claps.

"_I'm a Bimbo!_

_I'm a Bimbo!_

_I'm a B – I – _erm,_ M – _um, what next? Oh well, never mind.

_I'm a Bimbo!_

_I'm a Bimbo!_

_I'm a B – I – M – _um, er, oh, I know! _BO!_"

There was an extremely disgusted silence. Lili sat down, pleased with herself. Finally, Galadriel (with great effort) managed, "Thank you, Lili. Helen, dear, you may begin."

Legolas and Paris, who were surreptitiously poking each other behind Helen's back with long rulers, ceased their activity when they heard their beloved's golden voice.

Helen raised her dreamlike gaze and sang.

There was loud applause as Helen paused and seated herself. Legolas and Paris tried to outdo each other in volume of clapping.

It was Arwen's turn. Arwen carefully tucked a strand of shadow-hair behind her ear in a movement of infinite elegance, and began:

"_U ivethed na_

_I onnad si_

_Boe u dhanna_

_Ae u esteli_

_Esteli achnad_

_Na boe u i_

_Esteliohan esteliohan esteleo_

_Esteliohan_

_Esteoveleth_."

Arwen's voice filled the silence like silver rain, like a starry fall, soft and yet full of feeling, and infinitely sweetly sad. There was a long silent interlude. Then thunderous applause. Galadriel flashed Arwen her loveliest smile. Aragorn was looking starstruck.

"There is no way I'm winning after this," hissed Briseis.

"Oh yes you are," Andromache hissed back, and shoved Briseis upright.

Briseis glanced around nervously and opened her mouth. Her voice was nothing as beautiful as Arwen's, but it had its own sweet quality.

"You rock," said Achilles over Andromache's applause. "You really, really rock."

"You're very good," countered Andromache, who preferred to talk in normal English. "See? That wasn't so hard, was it?"

"Freaky," replied Briseis darkly. "You should try it for yourself, you know, then you'll see."

Elizabeth stood up and glared at her deskmates, who were grinning. "I hate you," she declared, and began to sing.

"But she is good," commented Will as Elizabeth sang.

"See, savvy?" supplemented Jack.

Elizabeth finished, sniffed and sat down.

Cosette, with furtive glances towards Marius, rose and began:

"_A heart full of love_

_A heart full of you_

_I saw you waiting and I knew_

_Waiting for you_

_At your feet_

_At your call_

_And it isn't a dream_

_Not a dream after all!_"

Eponine, with much envy at the fact that Marius had applauded Cosette, shot up and followed:

"_In the rain_

_The pavement shines like silver_

_All the lights_

_Are misty in the river_

_In the darkness _

_The trees are full of starlight_

_And all I see is him and me_

_Forever and forever_."

She sat down and thought: He applauded me as well, and perhaps even louder, so there, you stupid Lark.

Galadriel beamed at the two _filles_ and took up the marker. "Now we shall vote. Who votes for...um...Lili?"

Lili beamed around at the class. It was a huge surprise for her, but not for everyone else, when not a single hand was raised. Lili gasped in hurt and burying her head on the desk, burst into tears.

"Wimp," snorted Malfoy.

"Helen?"

Legolas and Paris competed to see whose hand was higher, and frowned balefully upon the people whose hands were not raised.

"And, who votes for..._Arwen_?"

Aragorn raised his hand proudly. So did a lot of other people – including Marius.

"What?" gasped Cosette.

"_Merde_!" exclaimed Eponine.

Marius ignored both their injured gazes and stared straight ahead where Galadriel was writing down Arwen's massive number of votes.

Briseis had only Andromache and Achilles for voters. "You _see_?"

"They have bad taste," snarled Achilles, with a look that did not bode well. "_Really_ bad taste."

Will and Jack naturally voted for Elizabeth. So did Anna (Holly and Éowyn were saving theirs for Eponine, with sincere hopes that Elizabeth would understand).

Eponine was pleased when she received more votes than Cosette, but Marius's lack of support still stung her heart.

It was unanimous. "Christine Daae," announced Galadriel with obvious pride, "is Arwen."

There was much cheering and applause as Arwen tried to look modest.

"The Phantom of the Opera," said Galadriel. "Nominees?"

"Artemis," put in Holly, "because he has that undeniably evil look."

"I beg your pardon," began Artemis, extremely miffed, but Galadriel had written down his name. Artemis gaped at Holly, who smirked back.

"Payback time," muttered Elizabeth. "I nominate Jack!" she called.

Jack did not appear greatly offended. "It's Captain Jack Sparrow!" was all he said.

"Malfoy," spoke up Hermione, "since he's evil too."

Draco Malfoy blanched.

"I nominate Legolas," sneered Paris, "as he has all the negative qualities of the Phantom, like selfishness, cruelty, insanity..."

"I nominate Paris," yelled Legolas over Paris's ranting, "because his ugly face looks just right for the role!"

Galadriel stepped up to prevent the brewing fight, and called out, "Anyone else? No? Then do begin, Artemis dear."

Artemis sat with his back perfectly straight and stiff. "I refuse to sing."

Galadriel turned to him with a look of concern. "But...why?"

Artemis stared coolly back at her, his blue eyes unblinking. "I cannot sing, and I will not. I decline the nomination."

Galadriel seemed disappointed, but sighed in resignation. "Well, that's too bad, but I can't force anyone to audition if they don't want to."

"Really?" exclaimed Malfoy. "In that case, I decline too."

Legolas and Paris glanced at each other and said simultaneously: "So do we!"

Galadriel stared in horror. "I don't understand. I know of a lot of people who would _die_ to be the Phantom. But it's your choice. Jack, dear, you _won't_ resign, will you?"

Jack shrugged. "I guess it's no big deal."

Galadriel sighed in relief. "_Good_. Now, for Raoul de Chagny..."

As it turned out, a _lot_ more people wanted the role of Raoul than the role of the Phantom. Naturally, Arwen got Aragorn nominated. However, he was sharing competition with several other boys such as Éomer, Chix and strangely, the French Revolution. When it came to the French Revolution's singing, everyone had a very good idea of what was coming. They were not disappointed.

Enjolras stood up at attention. "Do you hear the people sing?" he began. "Singing the song of angry men! It is the music of a people who will not be slaves again!"

"Good," said Galadriel.

Joly bounced up. "When the beating of your heart echoes the beating of the drums, it is a life about to start when tomorrow comes!"

"Thank you," said Galadriel.

Feuilly was next. "Will you join in our crusade, who will be strong and stand with me? Beyond the barricade, is there a world you long to see?"

"Next," said Galadriel.

Courfeyrac leapt up. "Then join in the fight that will give you the right to be free! Do you hear the people sing?"

"Sit down," said Galadriel.

Gavroche scrambled up onto his cushion to be seen better. "Singing the song of angry men! It is the music of a people who will not be slaves again!"

"That's enough," said Galadriel.

Grantaire rose and slurred, "When the beating of your heart echoes the beating of the drums, there is a life about to start when – "

"That's all, I hope," said Galadriel.

"_WHEN TOMORROW COMES!_" chorused the French Revolution in merry unison.

"Thank you _very_ much," replied Galadriel firmly. "Now, _taisez-vous_!"

The French Revolution, having finished their performance, were too pleased with themselves to be in the least affected.

"Don't worry," reassured Arwen. "No one sings as well as you, Estel."

Hector, on the other side, wondered when exactly she had got around to calling Aragorn Estel (a very strange name, he thought) but decided not to worry too much about that. And she was right. The other boys who had auditioned seemed, on overall, to have rather terrible singing.

It was only natural that Aragorn was voted as Raoul.

After which, Galadriel held votings for minor characters, and promised that she would let them off for break after that. At the end of class, the casting of characters ran as such.

CHRISTINE : Arwen

PHANTOM : Jack

RAOUL : Aragorn

MEG GIRY : Briseis

MME. GIRY : Andromache

(something Briseis insisted upon, and Achilles agreed with, on the grounds that Andromache was a disagreeable hag – not that he mentioned it)

ANDRE : Merry

FIRMIN : Pippin

(a very short pair of managers they made)

CARLOTTA : Elizabeth

(another case of Jack-and-Will sabotage)

PIANGI : Will

(in which Elizabeth decided he might as well join her in being sabotaged)

LEFEUVRE : Mulch

BUQUET : Gimli

REYER : Hector

(who could not play the piano, but could give an excellent impression of doing so)

"I am pleased," declared Galadriel when the casting had been confirmed. "And I will expect you – all of you – to attend the rehearsals later in the day. I will send word when I want you to be in the Hall. And in the meantime, dears, as I promised you may go for break."

Everyone rushed out of the Performing Arts classroom, leaving a wake of upturned cushions behind them. Many felt that this Orientation Night performance did not bode well. And in a lot of ways, they were quite right.

**End of Chapter**

_Next chapter coming ... _**Indicial Equations and Impertinence**


	11. Indicial Equations and Impertinence

**A&A&A Boarding School**

Authoresses' Note: Lydia hates being a cancer cell. Just thought we'd let you know.

Lydia's cancer-cellation is the reason why we haven't been updating at chapter-per-day rate. The things we do for our CCAs.

For reviewers, thank you, southerngirl4615 , L (you really know how to flatter us, don't you? We bask in your praise and love you lots...), hotdogfish, Silver Sniper, Mariette (we really can't resist, 'cos them revolutionaires are very amusing to torture. They sing One Day More here, though), FlameTalon, Cerse Liminara, Dark Borg Drone, I AM EOWYN, Katatonia (we were wondering when anyone would ask! Well, our characters fall approximately between the ages of 12 – 18, except for the elves and others, who are the ages which roughly correspond in their time to 12 – 18. Yes, and Lili Frond is from Artemis Fowl, see AN Chapter 7), and Asha Ice (if Achilles spoke Greek, then the LotR characters would speak Westron and the French Revolution French and the fairies Gnommish and Anna Romanian and so on. Let's pretend the language barriers do not exist, shall we? Because no matter how great we are at languages we still can't learn them all. And Galadriel is biased towards Arwen because she's her granddaughter. Nepotism is well and alive in A&A&A.)

Note to all th13rteeners from Lydia: I – and the other cancer cells – won't be going to school on Monday, so I shan't see you all again for a long time. I miss you all badly, though, and can't wait for next year or the holiday party or whatnot. Keep in touch through MSN. I think you will identify with the second half of this chapter. I love you all lots, you darling th13rteeners, and I can't bear to be in a different class. (cries) Tell Oce happy birthday for me.

**11. Indicial Equations and Impertinence**

"That," commented Éowyn as she and Holly sat with their lemonade in the Dining Hall during break, "was an emotionally scarring experience."

Holly agreed. "Hearing Lili sing. Ugh."

Éowyn shuddered. "I think Galadriel wants me to be the Wax Figure. I don't know what that is, but it doesn't sound good. Wax."

Elizabeth sat down opposite them. "Will you _believe _it? I'm Carlotta."

"Congratulations," said Anna, who arrived next to her.

"No congratulations," muttered Elizabeth. "Sabotage, plain and clear. Really, my two deskmates – they're in for rat poisoning."

"Rat poisoning?" asked Eponine with interest. She plonked her lemonade glass next to Holly's and seated herself on the bench.

Elizabeth nodded. "I carry a bottle around all the time. For the rats; I hate them so, and you never know when they appear."

"Why do you hate rats?" inquired Eponine, puzzled. "They taste really good."

Eponine the street _gamine_ had obviously had a lot of rats in her time, but Elizabeth the _demoiselle_ hadn't. She blanched. "God. You eat those things?"

Anna broke up the oncoming argument by saying, "We've got Math in five minutes. In the next block – teacher's some Jean Valjean. Weird name."

Eponine perked up her ears. "Jean Valjean? But isn't 's _père_?"

"But..." Elizabeth considered. "Cosette's surname isn't Valjean."

"She talks about him too much for us to doubt," Eponine told her sagely. "Finish your lemonade, hurry, or we'll be _en retard_."

In the Math classroom, Cosette was looking extremely happy. "Marius! Did you know my father teaches Math?"

"Oh." Marius absorbed this piece of information. "Really?"

Eponine decided that she didn't like Math.

Cosette perked up when the Math teacher entered the classroom. He was rather elderly but still well-built, and his voice was very gruff when he greeted them. "_Bonjour, tout le monde_."

"Er." The non-French portion of the class had no idea how to respond. "Good, um, morning?"

"I am M. Valjean," went on their teacher, in a clipped French accent. "And although I am not a man of high intelligence, I have graciously accepted the job of teaching Math in your school. I am sure," he eyed the varied faces, "that all of you have different standards of Math, so in order to Regulate the Pace of Learning and Understanding your Standards, I shall give you all a diagnostic test." He began dealing out test papers. "Don't worry," he added at the look of shock on some of their faces. "This is but a test to find your abilities, not a Summative Assessment. Do not despair if you cannot do all the questions. _Et – commencez_."

The class bent their heads and proceeded to do the diagnostic test.

Artemis stared at his paper in barely disguised disdain. Indicial equations? He had been doing those when he was four. After skimming through and finishing the entire paper in five minutes twenty-three seconds, he still had not found a single question worthy enough to so much as challenge his massive intellectual. Artemis put down his paper with a sigh and glanced around. No one, not even the Granger girl, seemed to have finished yet. The level of Math in this class...he could hardly bear to imagine. Artemis proceeded to stare into space and plot wicked plots. He had a sinking feeling that he was going to be _very_ bored in Math class.

Hermione finished her paper exactly one minute and ten seconds after Artemis. That was _it_? Well, if the Math here was so simple she would probably be able to top the class without any difficulty. Unless – and here she eyed Artemis, who was staring into space, suspiciously – unless Fowl intervened with her plans to conquer the academical world of examinations and marks. Oh no, she wouldn't let him. She was, after all, the unbeatable Hermione Granger.

"Up till you met_ him_," whispered a malicious voice in the back of her head.

Hermione shook her head violently to dislodge that voice. That was _so_ not true. She would show Artemis Fowl. She really would...

Ten minutes later, Valjean announced that their time was up. "You shall mark your own papers – it is a lot faster that way, non?" He pulled down the projector screen and switched on the projector. The answers appeared on the screen, and everyone started marking.

"Stop cheating," muttered Elizabeth under her breath.

"Am not," retorted Jack.

"You," pointed out Elizabeth indignantly, "are cancelling out your wrong answers and replacing them with the ones on the screen. If that isn't cheating, then what is?"

"Cheating," replied Jack by way of explanation, "is a way of life. There's nothing wrong with cheating, savvy? You know, lass, that I've got out of many scrapes before because I cheated? For example, in the..."

"Cheating," interrupted Elizabeth hotly, "is _dishonourable_. And learning from your mistakes is _all for your own good_."

"You sound like me old ma," rejoined Jack.

"Well, she must have been a respectable woman with morals then. And in that case, I have no idea how someone like her could have raised someone like you!"

Jack stared pointedly at anywhere but Elizabeth and began to whistle as he continued changing answers.

"So..." Valjean appraised the class. "How many of you got...forty out of forty?"

Artemis and Hermione raised their hands, saw the other, and glared daggers. If looks could kill, now would have been the time for some bloody murdering.

Jack was about to casually raise his hand. Elizabeth hissed, "Oh no you don't!" and tackled his arm, which she managed to hold down until Valjean had moved to the next group of marks. Will watched with his familiar I'm-so-glad-it's-not-me look. "Really, Jack. I thought you'd have known better than to let her see."

When Valjean had appropriately categorised the class into their diverse Math standards, he gave them all worksheets to do – according to their own Math standards.

In ten minutes, Artemis had finished eleven on Indicial Equations.

Not good, thought Hermione. I'm only on the ninth worksheet. It doesn't matter though. Slow and steady wins the race. I bet he doesn't check his work, and I do.

"He does get _all_ his answers right, even without checking," drawled that irritating voice in her head.

Shut up, thought Hermione, and focused angrily on Indicial Equations.

"Do you have anything with a difficulty level suited to my IQ?" said Artemis in a bored voice. "I invented five new algebra formulas at the age of seven."

Valjean was looking slightly worried. "In that case, I suppose you would find Quadratic Equations...boring. Why don't you try, um, inventing a new formula for, um, Quantum Calculation? That should keep you occupied." Ha, he thought. Take that, smart alec.

Of course, thought Artemis as he settled down to work out the diversifying quantum equations, it never does to underestimate a boy genius. Especially one by the name of Artemis Fowl.

There was a loud yell of triumph from the section of the French Revolution. "I got it!" screeched Gavroche. "I got it! I can multiply two-digit numbers! I can! I can!"

"Bravo," muttered Grantaire, too engrossed in Decimal Problem Sums to care much.

"Shut up," added Anna, who was engrossed in the same worksheet, with a notably shorter fuse.

"And how are you doing, _ma cherie_?" asked Valjean tenderly, as he bent over Cosette's work.

"Fine, papa – although I find the fractions quite hard to understand." Cosette smiled sweetly back. "Would you mind helping me...just a little bit, you know?"

Eponine glanced discreetly at Cosette's worksheet. Number three. She rolled her eyes in disdain and went back to her own Worksheet Five, of a _much_ higher level. So much for being the daughter of the Math teacher.

Ten minutes to the end of class, Artemis was trying to argue his new Quantum Calculation theory with Valjean.

"Such a thing is unthinkable," stated Valjean firmly, glaring at his wilful student. "In the whole history of Math there has never been such evidence as can support a theory of such."

"Indeed?" Artemis returned the glare coolly. "Then, observe this." He scribbled a formula down on the paper. "You admit that, do you not?"

"Yes, of course," returned Valjean impatiently, "everyone knows that suppliant integers work that way. But..."

"How about this, then?" Artemis wrote down another formula. "Compare that to the first, and work it out...if you can, that is."

Valjean could, indeed. And realised that unthinkably, Artemis Fowl did have a point.

"You could also try this solution," went on Artemis blithely, "and see how the whole formula works out. Which it does, excellently well."

Valjean had no choice but to agree. He decided teaching this particular class gave him a headache.

When the bell rang, the class happily ditched trying problem sums for freedom in the corridors. Valjean was also quite relieved. At least he was rid of Artemis Fowl and his frustrating accuracy.

As they jogged along the corridors, Merry peered at his timetable. "CLE? Character Leadership Education? What sort of class is that?"

"Dunno." Mulch shrugged. "Guess it's some class teaching as morals or whatnot."

"Ah well," sighed Frodo, "at least morals will be a relief from cramming all that academical stuff."

He was soon to realise that it was never good to underestimate a CLE class. Particularly one taught by the A&A&A CLE teacher.

As they took their seats in the CLE classroom, the French Revolution struck up a new song. "One more day before the storm! At the barricade of freedom!"

There was the general groan about the class, but by now they had learnt that _nothing_ could make the barricade boys shut up.

"When our ranks began to form, will you take your place with me?"

Well, perhaps there was...

"The time is now! The day...is..."

"IMPERTINENCE!!!"

Everyone froze. Even the French Revolution stopped singing.

A large man strode into the room. He had a fearsome infestation of sideburns, which covered both his cheeks, and he was dressed smartly in the unquestionable garb of a police officer. In his hand, he carried a black policeman's baton, which he whacked rhythmically against his palm when he walked and appeared not to even wince. The expression from his face could not have been described as sour. Sour could not even begin to describe it.

"Do you quail before _moi_?" he shouted, as the class remained frozen at the sight of such a horrendous apparition. "Do you quail before the magnificence and the blinding righteousness of Inspector Javert? Is it not so?"

Everyone was still too much in shock to answer. Inspector Javert took the silence as a 'yes'. He paused before the desk, and then struck its wooden surface so hard and so viciously that the entire class jumped.

"You have come from the class of a man of unimaginable wickedness, a man with no morals whatsoever, who stands insolent in the face of justice. You come from the class of Jean Valjean! I can still see the marks of his evil upon you!" This was directed at Hermione, who had been guiltily stuffing a Math worksheet into her file.

Cosette felt she should say something in Valjean's defence. "But, Monsieur," she began in a tremulous voice. "Monsieur, you mustn't say such things about my..."

"IMPERTINENCE!!!" roared Javert with such fury that Cosette nearly fainted dead away. "How dare you! How dare you say one word in defence of that...that _criminal_!" His sideburns flared. Then he seemed to recover himself. "Enough of speaking that convict's name. I shall get down to the lesson today. Character Leadership Education, as it is. I am here to drill morals and values into your young wayward heads and to build your character. And the first moral anyone should learn is respect for your elders!"

Abruptly he spun and wrote on the board:

I SHALL RESPECT INSPECTOR JAVERT IN WHATEVER HE DOES. I SHALL NEVER QUESTION HIS DECISIONS, BECAUSE HE IS MY ELDER AND A POLICE OFFICER AND HENCE ALWAYS RIGHT. I SHALL OBEY HIM UNQUESTIONINGLY AND WORSHIP HIM AS A MODEL OF RIGHTEOUSNESS AND LAW. I SHALL FOLLOW ALL OF THE ABOVE.

"You," boomed Javert, "will copy down that motto. And then you will take out your foolscap paper and rewrite that motto a total of a thousand times; no more, no less. I will personally count them."

"A thousand times!" exclaimed Éowyn. "But it's impossible to..."

"IMPERTINENCE!!!" bellowed Javert in Éowyn's face. "You will not question my decisions! Now, begin!"

The class had no choice but to 'obey unquestioningly'. And that was the beginning of their hour of hell in CLE.

To give them credit, the class had fairly high stamina – by the twentieth time they were still going strong. After that, some began flagging or slowing down. Fifteen minutes passed. Their hands were already aching. Grub, who was only on the twenty-fifth time, was nearly in tears. The French Revolution were no longer singing. Writing lines took all the fight out of you.

No one said anything. The very air in the classroom felt dead and desperate. Javert patrolled up and down the aisles, baton in hand, making sure no one slacked.

Hermione perhaps lasted longest of the whole class – if you wrote as much as she did in an essay, you had a lot of practice for this sort of thing – but by the five-hundredth-and-sixty-fifth line even she was about to succumb to the massive screaming ache of her cramped fingers.

Then the bell rang to signify the end of lesson.

There was a collective sigh of relief about the room. Many people dropped their wilting pens and massaged their throbbing fingers. Achilles, who had been on the point of strangling Javert the next time he passed, also released the hated pen and stopped along with the rest. Javert's strangulation would wait for another day.

Javert was not about to give up so easily, however. "Just because the class is over," he announced nastily, "does not mean you can leave your work unfinished. I expect you all to hand in the full thousand lines by tomorrow, 10 am. Anyone who does not, will have to write the entire thing out all over again, under my personal supervision."

With that he strode out, leaving them gaping at the injustice. Achilles growled in his throat and flexed his fingers, then winced as the aching joints on his right hand wailed in protest.

Enjolras examined his swelling digits with great chagrin. The French Revolution looked at their leader miserably.

"I hate CLE," muttered Enjolras.

And that was the very hour in which Les Revolutionaires Français identified their arch-enemy.

**End of Chapter**

_Next chapter coming..._**World Maps and William Shakespeare**


	12. World Maps and William Shakespeare

**A&A&A Boarding School**

Authoresses' Note: No denying it now, not Cancer-cellation or anything. Lydia is being just plain lazy. But here's nine pages, so we hope you're appeased.

Okay, here go our thanks: to Dark Borg Drone, Katatonia (serious as death, believe us. If you are an actress NEVER audition for the role of a cancer cell. Anyway, thanks for the Draco Malfoy note. It shalt be complied), Celias23, Elbereth Gilthoniel, I AM EOWYN (Yeah, Shakespeare rocks – we both like the Tempest best, though), hotdogfish, Manveri Mirkiel (yes, yes, alphabetical order. You owe us three reviews for 10 but one for 11. Count your blessings, lissenya. And yes, Javert is from Les Mis), Mirror of Galadriel (wonder if Zeggy read that. I can't see how. Maybe it's the evil thing), southerngirl4615 (Bici, bici. Now we return the hope that your work won't be so demanding), Asha Ice (so Zeggy demands character development. Very well, you shall have it – our way. Which means no angst or romance, but we will really try to develop characters. No more Lili for some time, we promise, and Artemis development. Yes, yes. Did you read GuoJun's review?), Cerse Liminara (very dead, if you take our meaning), L (thank you for reminding Lydia the author's name was Margaret George – she always forgets. And we've been looking for Henry VI and also Mary Queen of Scots, but they're kinda elusive. And we would never dream of saying we are better than the excellent Margaret George. Heavens, no. Dumbledore not likely, but the Matrix, perhaps...) and Tsuki Yume (the cancer cell and etc. was meant for the ears of th13rteeners, sorry. And we agree with you about the Phantom. Such a misunderstood soul – particularly by people like our dear first-years)

We own nothing, owe everything. Perhaps this isn't such a good chapter after all. Too many distractions for the writers – like the thirty Christmas Cards to be made and sent. Never mind. Sorry.

**12. World Maps and William Shakespeare**

Lunch was a miserable affair. Especially when no one had a hand well enough to hold on to a knife or fork for long. Everyone stared, depressed, at the chicken cutlets before them. Several people were trying to maneuver both cutlery with their left hands and constantly spilling sauce and generally making a mess. Pippin had invented the ingenious idea of using his teeth to pick up the entire cutlet and nibble it that way.

Malfoy winced as he attempted again to close his fingers around the fork handle and dropped it reluctantly as the muscles in his hand protested. From where he was seated, he could see Granger using her good hand to push a bowl of yellowish oily liquid at Potter and Weasley. As he watched, the three of them proceeded to soak their inflamed hands in it. Murtlap Essence, by the look of it; Granger always had some of the stuff around with her. Now Malfoy regretted not having acquired some when he could.

He glanced at the person opposite him: Artemis Fowl. Fowl alone seemed to be the only one who wasn't massaging his arm. Although he didn't seem to be trying to eat either. Fowl was one strange kid. But what he did know, was that Fowl did not like Granger.

"So, Fowl," he spoke up, breaking into Artemis's thoughts. "I hear you and Granger got the same marks for your essay."

Artemis was not fond of having his thoughts interrupted. He focused on Malfoy's face with some difficulty and sighed. Interference. "Indeed."

Malfoy laughed. To Artemis, who did not laugh on a daily basis, that was highly uncomfortable. "That's one down on Granger then. Bet she never thought there'd ever be someone better than her."

Artemis remained impassive. Malfoy, after waiting expectantly for an answer, gave up and said: "I wonder if you'd heard of me – Draco Malfoy, you know, son of Lucius Malfoy – I've definitely heard about you. Artemis Fowl the great. You're a genius, aren't you?"

Again no answer. Malfoy went on.

"How about this, then? Let's be friends. I know a thing or two about Granger that you might be interested in, seeing as you've taken a dislike to her..."

Artemis nearly rolled his eyes. "Pardon, _Malfoy_, but I have nothing against Mademoiselle Granger, contrary to what you seem to think – although it is understandable with your intellectual that you would automatically assume such a shallow conclusion. As a matter of fact, I welcome Hermione's presence as someone worthwhile challenging among the rest of you lowly clods." His blue eyes, fixed on Malfoy's face, emitted electric hostility. "And I certainly would not wish to be acquainted with someone like you."

Malfoy couldn't speak for a moment. How dare Fowl offend him! He would pay for that. Fowl might be rich, but he would regret coming up against the Malfoy family. "Well," he managed at last, trying to put on an unconcerned façade, "that's your loss. Just you wait, Fowl, you'll regret it." He picked up his plate with his left hand and stalked off.

Artemis remained unmoving and unmoved. He could not have cared less about Malfoy, snivelling little git that he was – what he was cognizing about was his answer to Malfoy's offer, in particular the part involving Hermione Granger. He had mixed feelings about the girl. On one hand, here was a fellow intellectual, someone who was worthwhile getting to know better, who could probably match his intelligence – if he let her, that was. On the other hand, she was competition. She posed a threat to his reputation as an unbeatable genius – and if she beat him... ...No. That would not happen. There was no danger from that point; no one could beat Artemis Fowl. All in all, he was in truth glad she was here – she was a challenge, and Artemis Fowl always welcomed a challenge. It allowed him to hone his abilities and always prove himself the better. So, excellent.

Coming out of his reverie, he realised that people around him were abandoning the table and leaving for Literature Class. With a last regretful look at the ignored chicken cutlet, he too rose and departed from the Dining Hall.

Upon entering the Literature Classroom, the first thing Arwen did was fling herself upon the Literature teacher. "Adar! _Adar!_"

Lord Elrond Halfelven turned to greet his distressed daughter. "Arwen! Arwen, darling, what has happened?"

Arwen was heaving theatrical sobs. "Look at my hand, Adar! _Look!_"

Elrond took her hand and examined its ached swelling in huge horror. "Who has done this to you?" His eyebrows shot up in a dangerous way that did not bode well for the culprit Arwen named.

Arwen sniffed miserably. "It is that...that _ulundo rauco_ Javert!" Haldir blinked at her choice of word – not a very nice curse, that. "A monster that calls himself a teacher – he made us write lines, Adar! Until our hands hurt so much they almost dropped off – " Elrond looked petrified at the thought, "– and it is not only my hand!" She stepped back and dragged Aragorn's arm up so Elrond could see its sore colour. "I speak for the entire class, Adar!"

The rest of the class present made pitiful noises and waved their injured hands weakly in the air.

Elrond swelled up to an extent that could have rivalled Commander Root. "I shall certainly speak to Inspector Javert about this," he boomed. "Fear not, _meleth-nin_ – he shall harass you all no more. Now go to your seat, dear."

Arwen, looking secretly satisfied, returned to her seat with Aragorn. Hector watched her, torn between whether to be pleased with her for getting Javert into trouble and whether to be disgusted at sucking up to her father like that. One thing was certain, for sure – with the clout she had among her relatives in the A&A&A staff, Arwen Undómiel was definitely not one to be offended.

Elrond gazed upon his class with sad pity. "Well, since your hands are in no condition to write, today we shall focus on pure reading. As you know this is a Literature Class, and of course, every Lit. class must pay homage to the greatest of writers – "

He turned and with great drama yanked down the projector screen. A face that most of the class recognised well appeared upon it. "WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE!"

There was silence in the class, except for what seemed like a hastily muffled attempt to swear at the back. Elrond frowned.

"I see you are not anywhere near as awed as I expected you to be. You shall learn to be. Or else." He adjusted his robe and sternly plonked a huge stack of very battered books upon Harry's table. "Give them out."

Harry looked at the tattered cover of the book on top.

THE MERCHANT OF VENICE

By WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

"So..." Elrond paced the length of the board as the books were passed around the class. "How many of you have read the Merchant of Venice?"

Arwen, naturally, raised her hand – not the sore one, though. So did Artemis and Hermione. The rest of them seemed blissfully unaware of Shakespeare's play.

Elrond's eyebrows jumped and looked decidedly and thickly cross. "_Well_ then. In that case, to familiarise yourselves with the text, you will have a Shakespeare reading." The eyebrows relaxed and began to look expectantly pleased. "Be happy that this round you will not have to take notes. Now, open your books. Act One, Scene 1." He looked around. "Antonio, the lonely and angst-filled merchant, opens this scene. So...ah...you. Read Antonio's part."

"Me?" Boromir gaped.

"Yes you. I'm sure you'll do excellently – and I'm never wrong, am I?" Arwen nodded in agreement. Boromir glared at her. Elrond went on gleefully: "Now stand up and read out loud. Projection, remember."

Boromir gave a loud sigh and stood up. "In, er, sooth I know not why I am so sad?"

Elrond shook his head and tutted. "You lack a very important thing. _Expression_. Please, try and pretend you _are _Antonio, for the moment. Try again."

Boromir rolled his eyes and resigned himself to his fate. "In sooth I know not why I am so sad: It wearies me, you say it wearies you; But how I caught it, found it, or came by it, what stuff 'tis made of, whereof it is born, I am to learn. And such a want-wit sadness makes of me, that I have much ado to know myself."

_What on earth was all that about?_ wondered Boromir when he was done. _Sadness? Well, being Antonio makes me feel sad._

"Now," put in Elrond, "we need a Salerio and a Solanio, Antonio's merchant friends. The two of you over there, you'll do very well. You, Haldir, you be Salerio, and Malfoy will be Solanio."

Haldir, looking very disgusted with the proceedings indeed, rose haughtily and began: "Your mind is tossing on the ocean: There, where your argosies with portly sail – Like signiors and rich burghers on the flood, or as it were the pageants of the sea..."

Harry noted with pleasure that Malfoy was looking agitated as Haldir rambled on towards Solanio's cue. Most of his other classmates were looking sleepy.

"...with woven wings," finished Haldir, and glanced at Malfoy.

"Believe me, um, sir, had I such, um, venture forth," began Malfoy nervously. "The better part of my, um, affections would be with my hopes abroad."

The three 'merchants' spoke on. Harry and Ron kept watching; the only thing that kept them from being bored to sleep like the others was seeing Malfoy stumble over Shakespearean Olde English. So occupied were they with gloating over their enemy's embarassment, that Harry never expected the blow that would strike next.

"Good morrow, my good lords," announced Haldir.

"Ah!" exclaimed Elrond, "I forgot to nominate a Bassanio." He pointed at Harry. "Stand up and read Bassanio."

Harry's mouth dropped open. "_What_?! Me? Bassanio?"

Elrond made flapping movement with his hands for Harry to comply. Harry had no choice but to get to his feet and mutter, "Good signiors both, when shall we..."

"_Expression_! Bassanio is being friendly, so _try _and sound friendly, will you?"

Harry ground his teeth and attempted friendliness – not very easy, when he was supposed to be speaking to Salerio and Solanio, the latter who was being read by his archenemy. "Good signiors both, when shall we laugh? Say when? You grow exceeding strange; must it be so?"

"Better," murmured Elrond.

"We'll make our leisures to attend on yours," replied Haldir hastily, and he and Malfoy hurriedly sat down.

"Lorenzo and Gratiano," muttered Elrond, "Lorenzo and Gratiano, let's see. Van Helsing, Lorenzo. Faramir, Gratiano. Commence."

Anna smirked at the horrified look beneath Van Helsing's hat. "My Lord Bassanio. Since you have found Antonio. We two. Will leave you. But at..."

"Do not punctuate your speech with pauses!" exclaimed Elrond with chagrin. "It chops up your sentences. Try to speak smoothly."

So on and so forth.

"A stage, where every man must play a part," went on Boromir, "and mine a sad one." _Antonio really is beginning to get me down._

"Let me play the fool!" exclaimed Faramir. _Very fitting,_ thought Boromir with grim amusement. "With mirth and laughter let old wrinkles come."

_Gratiano,_ mused Boromir, _is very good for my brother._

"Is that anything now?"

"Gratiano speaks an infinite deal of nothing – more than any man in Venice," replied Harry as Bassanio. "His reasons are as two grains of wheat hid in two bushels of chaff: you shall seek all day ere you find them, and when you have them they are not worth the search."

_Shakespeare must have known Faramir_, decided Boromir, _and based Gratiano's character on him. How else could they be so alike?_

Elrond watched, satisfied, as his students struggled to the end of Act One Scene 1. "Act One Scene 2!" he cried. "No, we're not stopping for a break or anything. Elizabeth, Portia. Éowyn, Nerissa. Start."

"By my troth, Nerissa," began Elizabeth unhappily – really unhappily, "my little body is aweary of this great world."

"You would be, sweet madam," replied Éowyn, who was equally discontented with her role as Elizabethan lady's maid, "if your miseries were in the same abundance as your good fortunes are."

Elrond sat and listened through Scene 2, as Elizabeth and Éowyn discussed various suitors in tones of repeatedly increasing despair.

As they finished, Elrond rushed on. "Scene 3. Shylock – "

Everyone held bated breath.

"Shylock – " Elrond thought. Shylock was an important character – moneylender, Jew, racially-oppressed and misunderstood villain. "Very well. Artemis Fowl."

Time stopped. Artemis could not believe Fate's cruelty. Earlier in the day he had barely escaped having to audition – now here he was, having to undergo the same humiliation all over again. For Heaven's sake, he didn't even identify with, or like Shylock. So maybe they were both misunderstood, but he did prefer it to be like that. Being underestimated gave him an edge over others. And he despised Shylock's thirst for Antonio's blood. Artemis saw nothing profitable from revenge.

He was jolted out of his character study and came face to face with the expectant look on Elrond's face. Somewhere to his left he could hear Holly and Éowyn whispering – gossiping, like girls would do. He had no doubt that Holly would revel in his embarassment at the role. Holly seemed to have taken an extreme dislike to him. Perhaps it was the misunderstood evil thing. Never mind that now. He had a reputation and a face to save.

"Three thousand ducats – well," began Artemis.

"Ay sir, for three months," put in Harry.

"For three months – well."

"For the which, as I told you, Antonio shall be bound."

"Antonio shall become bound – well."

"_Expression_, Artemis. You're an evil Jew. Expressing that isn't so hard, is it?"

_If he thinks Shylock the epitome of evil, then he's seriously wrong. My evil and Shylock's evil are nothing alike._ "Three thousand ducats for three months, and Antonio bound.

On went Scene 3.

"Let the forfeit be nominated for an equal pound of your fair flesh, to be cut off and taken in what part of your body pleaseth me." _Very messy way of being evil. Now, if I had been Shylock, definitely something less bloody and more clinical would have been more in place._

Artemis was not enjoying being Shylock. But it certainly provided a lot of room for character study – and comparison.

As Act One of the Merchant of Venice ground to a halt, the class ended with the ringing of the bell. Sleepily, the first-years made the transition from romantic Literature to hard-core Geography.

Hector, Paris and Briseis found the Geography teacher extremely familiar. "Father!" exclaimed Paris as they entered the Geography classroom.

King Priam turned. "Ah! Paris! And Hector, I see. Have you been taking care of your brother?"

Paris opened his mouth to state otherwise, but Hector kneed him in the kidneys. Paris shut up. "I have found it very difficult," answered the elder brother truthfully. "You see, Father, Paris has some very unsavoury new acquaintances."

Paris wondered vindictively whether that was a reference to Legolas – or, hopefully not, Helen.

Priam shook his white head. "Paris, my boy, you were supposed to listen to your brother. Now, I suggest you keep your distance from these bad friends, or I shall have a word with you. Go to your seat." As his sons went to back to their respective desks, Priam took out a long pointer in the same way as he would draw a sword, and called the attention of the class to the enormous world map tacked onto the board.

"This is a map of the world."

"Fairly obvious," muttered Achilles, who was still suffering from the sleepy after-effects of Lit. class.

Priam lengthened his pointer. "We shall be learning about the Geography of the World this year, and this means observing in great detail the Geography of Every Single Country of the World. Hence, pay attention, for all of this will be tested in your Summative Assessments."

Hermione instantly whipped out a piece of parchment and held her quill poised at the ready, as if she hadn't been suffering from hand-sore just a few hours before.

Priam lengthened his pointer again, and swung around to aim at Asia. Artemis had just enough sense to duck, as the pointer whirled over his head.

Priam began to talk about the topography of Asia, waving the pointer to emphasise certain points. It swept over Holly's head with a whistling noise and came to a stop just next to Éowyn's ear. Éowyn stopped breathing.

"And as to the mountainous areas..." went on Priam, and moved the pointer. Éowyn ducked swiftly, followed by Artemis, as the pointer travelled down the row and nicked Carl's head. Carl winced.

Priam moved on to Europe. Again the pointer swung. Artemis, Éowyn and Holly ducked in swift succession. Ron yanked Hermione (who was too busy taking notes to notice) down as the pointer's tip sliced through the air over their heads and halted quivering next to Harry's glasses. Harry inhaled sharply.

The first half of the lesson, the front row spent in ducking Priam's murderously long pointer. Things just got worse when Priam travelled to Africa and lengthened the pointer again. Boromir and Faramir dove for cover as the pointer shot between them.

"Should someone tell him that his pointer is too long?" wondered Holly.

Éowyn put up her hand, put it down hastily as the pointer barely brushed her fingertips, and put it up again. "Erm, Professor Priam, your pointer is..."

"Not now," came Priam's voice – his back was to them – "questions later. Concentrate on taking notes now."

"How on earth can we take notes," breathed Anna indignantly, "when his pointer is intent on concussing us?"

Priam appeared not to hear the displeasure from the unfortunate first- and second-row, and went on teaching. The third row considered themselves lucky.

Geography lesson ended with much relief, when Priam had finished covering the world map. The old king wasn't done with them yet, though.

"Homework: A detailed report, complete with statistics and diagrams – particularly topographs – on the topography of a country of your choice. Now, now, don't complain, I'm already letting you choose your own country."

"But...but...where are we supposed to find all that information?" inquired Grub nervously.

Priam gave him a look that sent Grub shivering. "Weren't you taking notes?"

Grub glanced at Trouble for help – somewhere where the help wasn't exactly forthcoming.

"Anyway," added Priam, "you can always go to the library. I'm sure you know where it is." Without waiting for an answer, Priam scooped up his pointer, shortened it and swept out of class, royal robes billowing and the pointer tip poking out from under his arm.

"More homework," muttered Anna. "When will it end?"

Naturally, if she had been a student long acquainted with the ways of A&A&A, she would have known the answer.

Never.

**End of Chapter**

_Next chapter coming ..._**Rehearsals and Runaway Homework**


	13. Rehearsals and Runaway Homework

**A&A&A Boarding School**

Authoresses' Note: Oh hey! The sisters return from Kuala Lumpur...and Rukuelle has obtained high-heeled leather boots after the fashion of Anna Valerious. Lydia is green-eyed, not the least because she still doesn't have a leather hat like Van Helsing's. Too bad, says Rukuelle.

But we get to share the boots, don't we? Don't we? Rukuelle is very nice.

Oh, very well. We share.

Thank you.

So, on for review accolades. Lydia likes the word accolades. Accolades to:

**reicheru** : Aragorn sings the Et Earello song in RotK, if you didn't notice...but being you, you probably didn't. Javert's from Les Misérables.

**Asha Ice**: Artemis IS Irish! Just that he happens to speak French too. And Russian, while you're at it, and Vietnamese, and Arabic. You know, there's such a thing as multilinggual. You really need to brush up on trivia, dear. Oh, and five thousand years of China history would make Hermione _very_ happy. Squish wants you to update.

**Silver Sniper**

**Katatonia**: As mentioned in Chapter 1 AN, we shall not give our reasons for sending them to A&A&A – which is very much a regular school, after all. Lydia has a classmate who was always Nerissa too...'cept she liked being her, though. We should like to see you read like a 'vagabond thief' – after all, it's _giving your own style_ to the character, isn't it? Hee!

**Rosie Cotton of the Shire**: Actually it's all very AU – though we suppose Butler would still be able to teach after his wound – after all, he IS Butler. Aragorn's healing magic comes from the herbs, actually – or that's what we think. No right answers, likely.

**Dark Borg Drone**

**Tsuki Yume**

**Vionny**

**Randa-chan**: Believe us, your 'Leggy' is NOT a knowall. Not in the very least. No offence – to you at least.

**Mirror of Galadriel**: We did draw it out. We have loads of notes on the whole thing – classroom diagrams, dormitory diagrams, enrollment list. As a matter of fact we have a real, fully filled up, register. Perhaps we might start writing report cards for them...

**Hotdogfish**

**Cerse Liminara**: Actually, we wouldn't mind – sometimes Rukuelle believes Lydia to have vampiric tendencies

**Manveri** **Mirkiel**: Don't blame Zeggy; you haven't updated in a long time either. And wait till you see what we've planned for Legolas. Go on MSN; Lydia hasn't talked to you in a long time. Squish!

**Angel(s and Demons): **Are you Lydia's angel? It's kinda hard to tell, with all the brackets; but if you are, Lydia says thank you for the roses, which she dried, and Livvy the tadpole has become a frog. And now Lydia cannot tell which of the frogs is Livvy – it was so much easier when she was a tadpole

**I AM EOWYN**: you should read MoV, it's very good. Oh, we shall have romance – though it's not a main feature. Both of us are severely allergic to fluff, mush or any such. Only romance that's canonical though – the non-canon ones like Legolas/Helen are only for the fun of it and not serious.

Well, we thought it might be easier for you reviewers to read it this way. Although it's longer.

Lydia just wants to advocate all Pirates of the Caribbean fans to read what's probably the best PotC fanfic ever written – Ocean Soul by KA Rose. It's so well-written, so funny, so Sparrow-esque and so sad that she nearly cried at the end. Do read it.

**13. Rehearsals and Runaway Homework**

Legolas and Paris were waiting outside for Helen, who had gone to the toilet. Legolas was leaning on the windowsill, a slight breeze tousling his golden tresses. Paris was standing opposite him, arms crossed, foot tapping. The tension between the two was electric. People tended to give them a wide berth; anyone who could feel the hostility in the air could definitely tell something was going to happen soon. And that something wasn't anything you wanted to be caught up in.

"You know," began Paris, who was pathetically attempting to make conversation, "I've always wondered how it is, that the two of us look so much alike."

Legolas gazed coolly back. "Indeed."

"Yeah. Actually, you look more like me than I look like my own blood brother."

Legolas flicked his shining locks. "I beg your pardon. I don't think I'd even want to look like someone who's as wimpy as you."

Paris swallowed. "I beg _your_ pardon. _I _wouldn't want to look like someone who's got hair like yours."

When Legolas next spoke, there was a dangerous ring to his voice. "Excuse me. What was that you said about my hair?"

Paris, who had never been really sensitive anyway, did not locate the dangerous ring. "Well, I mean, what sort of guy would have hair like yours? It's bad enough you're blonde – but to wear it in_ braids_ like you do – I mean, how girly can that be?"

In a flash Legolas had leapt off the windowsill and had Paris pinned to the wall by his throat. Paris was beginning to choke.

"Never," hissed Legolas through clenched teeth, "_insult my hair again_!"

Paris, terrified, could only nod frantically. Legolas threw him a look of pure poison and dropped him.

Paris picked himself up, massaging his throat. He was still in awe of his quick release – and perhaps that made him a little less cautious. So he couldn't resist a parting shot.

"Well, _I_ wasn't the one who got thrashed by a _girl _on the first day of school."

It's because of people like Paris who never learn from experience, that certain accidents happen. The next thing Paris knew, was that he was flying through the air like a javelin. Legolas had certainly thrown him javelin-style. Paris found himself wishing, as he neared the descent of his parabola, that the girls' toilet hadn't been so near a wide-open window.

It was most unfortunate for the javelin-thrower, in such a case, that Inspector Javert happened to be passing, at that most inopportune moment, right under that very wide-open window.

_Crash_. "Oof!"

"IMPERTINENCE!!!"

* * *

The Company of Heroines were gathered at their usual spot at the tables. However, they were missing a member. 

"Where's Anna?" inquired Éowyn with puzzlement.

Eponine shrugged. "_Je ne sais pas_. I think she wandered off in the crowd."

Elizabeth poked at the Geography assignment. "I hope she's not lost. No time for getting lost with homework like this. "

"Yeah," said Holly. She opened her file and laid their various homework pieces on the table. "Extra Math worksheet – stupid Valjean – Geography assignment. And finally..." She took out a thick stack of pages, covered in gradually sloppier handwriting. "Javert's lines."

Everyone stared in desperation at the spread before them. Slowly Éowyn lifted Holly's lines and inspected them. "Four hundred and seventy-three – not bad, actually. I'm only on two hundred something."

Holly groaned. "I did some during Lit. – I think my hand's paying for it now." She cast a look of extreme hate at the last piece of homework. "Oh gods, how are we going to finish all this for tomorrow?"

"And yet Javert will force us to do it again if we don't," said Eponine sadly.

There was a gloomy silence.

"Ah well," said Éowyn brightly, "at least we could try. C'mon, let's go look for Anna."

The Company of Heroines consented to this futile attempt to cheer them up, packed up, and left in search of the missing Romanian.

No one noticed a stack of foolscap drop forlornly to the floor with a solemn thump, unnoticed in the commotion of departure.

* * *

"What now, Hermione?" complained Harry. 

"We're going to the library!" announced their overzealous companion.

Ron let out a groan. "Not again! Why d'you want to anyway? The next Geog. lesson isn't till Friday!"

"The sooner you finish everything the better. Don't procrastinate, Ron."

"But...but I haven't even finished Javert's homework, and that's due _tomorrow_!"

Hermione dropped the arm by which she had been lugging him, shocked. "What? You haven't? I finished it just now."

Harry and Ron gaped.

"You didn't," breathed Harry. "It's impossible. We're talking about a thousand lines here, Hermione."

"Whyever not?" Hermione grabbed their arms and commenced dragging again. "I mean, it's not even brain work. Another hour was all I needed."

"Hermione, everyone knows you're a marvel of academic science, but we're not, and we take over an hour to do our homework."

"Fine, then. Do your lines while I research Geography." Hermione released Harry to push open the library door, and they entered.

Evelyn swooped upon them immediately.

"Oh, my dears, I really was thinking I might never see you again. People always come once, and then they leave forever. I was thinking that no one likes libraries nowadays...but you are here, aren't you? Well, that's wonderful! Come on in, dears, come on in!"

_Well_, thought Harry, _I suppose, if you had been stuck in an abandoned library for a decade, then you would be rather possessive of your only visitors._

They seated themselves at one of the round, dusty tables present in the library. He and Ron proceeded with their lines while Hermione pottered round the bookshelves searching for material, Evelyn hovering at her shoulder reciting recommendations.

They were interrupted by the arrival of Anna Valerious.

Anna gazed around her, puzzled. "Where is this? I thought it led to the Dining Hall."

Harry glanced up and recognised her. "Oh, hi. You probably got lost – this is the Library."

Anna stared around. "_Library_?" She wandered off into a nearby section. "Ah well. Might as well explore while I'm here." She stuck her head around a bookshelf and called: "If any of the girls come looking for me, tell them I'm here. If Van Helsing comes, don't."

Harry nodded and went back to his lines.

Speak of the Devil. As soon as Anna was thoroughly lost in her section, Van Helsing made his cloaked appearance. Van Helsing raised his hat and glanced around, the slight expression of interest crossing his usually impassive face. "This a library?"

Harry looked up, startled. "Er, yeah."

Van Helsing continued taking in the view. "So...anyone else here?"

"Only Hermione and the Librarian," answered Harry, mindful of Anna's parting words.

Van Helsing nodded, pushed his hat back down and wandered off into another section – fortunately, Harry noted, quite far from the one Anna had entered.

Hermione returned, bearing a colossal stack of books on Russia, her selected country, which she let crash upon the table with no little satisfaction.

"You shouldn't have chosen Russia," commented Harry, as Hermione opened a massive atlas and began to leaf through the plaque-like pages.

"Whyever not?"

"Because Russia's the biggest country in the world. That means you'll have to draw more maps and more diagrams and more..."

"Harry," interrupted Ron, "you know Hermione. _That's_ why she chose Russia."

"Oh."

"Hello," put in Frodo.

All three jumped. "Now you!" exclaimed Harry.

"What about us?" said Merry, looking puzzled and hurt.

"No, it's just that the library seems really popular today, when it hasn't been in the last decade over."

Gimli shrugged. "We were just looking for a quiet place to do our homework – "

" – the Dining Hall's too noisy, see – " put in Pippin.

" – and then we saw Van Helsing and followed him here."

"Why Van Helsing?" asked Harry in a digressing manner.

The Short Alliance shrugged. "Merry's idea," replied Mulch.

"Hey, it was a good one. We're here, see."

They were interrupted by Evelyn's squeal of delight.

"_More_ visitors! Oh, I'm positively delighted! What is it you came here for, dears? Research? Borrowing novels? Need any help?"

"Peace and quiet," said Sam.

"Oh." Evelyn seemed to deflate – if a ghost could deflate, that was. "Well, I'll leave you alone then. Got to get back to filing the books, you know."

They watched with some trepidation as Evelyn floated off to the nearest ladder and began to climb it. "Wait a minute. I would swear that those French texts don't belong there..."

"There go all our chances for peace and quiet," sighed Harry.

At the library door, the four members of the Company of Heroines jumped in synchrony as a series of dreadful crashes filled the air. "_Mon dieu_! What on earth was that?"

"Hopefully not Anna."

They rushed in, and were confronted by the sight of Harry, Ron, Hermione and the stunned Short Alliance in the middle of a ring of neatly felled bookshelves. Evelyn crawled out from underneath a bookshelf that had just neatly missed Frodo's toe. "Ah, that felt _good_..."

Elizabeth was distracted by the sight of Van Helsing emerging from the shadows of the library and picking his way suspiciously through the mess. "Get him!" she screamed, and charged.

The very shocked Van Helsing was pinned up against one of the still-standing bookshelves for interrogation by a horde of angry girls, before he could even say the particularly colourful Latin phrase he usually used for such circumstances. He said it anyway.

"What have you done with Anna?" asked Éowyn angrily.

"Don't deny it," added Elizabeth, "we know how you hate her, and now she's gone missing..."

"All the evidence points against you," declared Holly, who had clamped Van Helsing's shoe to a couple of encyclopaedias.

Van Helsing stared. "Are you mad? I haven't done anything to Anna. I haven't even seen her since Geog. And give me back my hat."

"Not till you say where Anna is," warned Eponine, holding the hat just out of reach.

Evelyn swept over as the bookshelves righted themselves. "Now, now, my dears, I'm very sorry to interrupt – but you're not allowed to fight in libraries, you know, so if you wouldn't mind taking your argument somewhere else..."

Everyone else ignored her. "I haven't got a damn idea!" yelled Van Helsing. "You know, this is unreasonable harassment..."

He was cut short by Anna's sudden appearance from another corner of the library pushing a book-filled trolley in front of her, muttering various things. "Stupid trolley...you did have to get in the way, did you...blocking up the aisle like that...oh, what's going on? I thought I heard some crashing..." Then she spotted her comrades. "Oh, there you are! I was wondering..."

Then she recognised the person in their midst. "YOU!" she screamed, pointing at Van Helsing. "Are you STALKING me again?"

Before Van Helsing could reply, he was unceremoniously dropped by his captors, who were rushing towards their friend. Wherewith Van Helsing slid indecorously to the ground, recovered his hat with much difficulty and rose to leave.

Anna untangled herself and gave chase. "You didn't answer my question! Now, if you don't leave off stalking me, for whatever perverted reason you have..."

"For the umpteenth time, I am _not_ stalking you. Nor am I a pervert. So shut up and bugger off."

"You dare talk to me like that!"

"Oh, don't go all high-and-mighty on me..."

"I am _not_!"

"Oh yes you are."

"Am NOT!"

"Wordsworth?" Evelyn's voice cut through the air. The librarian ghost reached out towards a nondescript book on the second shelf. "You're supposed to be in the Poetry section..."

"Oh no," muttered Harry. "Er, maybe the two of you should get out of the..."

The ladder toppled.

Everyone in the library who was not occupied with being crushed either covered their eyes or watched and winced in horror.

"...way," finished Harry helplessly.

Evelyn scrambled out from underneath WIR – WIX and rushed towards them. "Oh dear. Oh dear. I keep forgetting it's rather hard on people who're still alive." She turned and gestured commandingly at the bookshelves. "Get off them! Now!"

The bookshelves righted themselves, in an almost apologetic manner. At once several people rushed forward and began pulling the two victims out of the wreckage. Harry, Ron and Gimli dragged Van Helsing into the empty carpet space while Éowyn and Eponine hoisted Anna upright and supported her out.

"Anna," said Holly urgently, "Anna, are you all right? Can you hear me? How many fingers am I holding up?"

"Two," mumbled Anna. "It's okay, I'm fine. Mothballs saved me."

"_Mothballs_?"

Anna tried to explain. "You see, on impact most of the books turned into mothballs..."

"They were rather suffocating, though," commented Van Helsing, who was trying to un-dent his hat.

"You don't interrupt. Anyhow, that sort of cushioned the impact."

"Oh. Ah."

There was silence as everyone contemplated the latest curious event that had happened in their lives.

"Ah, well," began Hermione cheerily. "Ghost bookshelves. You never know."

* * *

Legolas Greenleaf stumbled out of Detention Class, shaking his sore hand mournfully. Two detentions already – he wondered whether cutting lawn grass or writing "I, Legolas Greenleaf son of Thranduil, will not throw my fellow classmate at my CLE teacher again" was worse. It was a fairly close comparison. 

Something still irked him, as he entered the almost empty Dining Hall. That last sentence of Paris. Obviously the wimp had only said it to annoy him, but it still rankled. As long as Holly's insult to him remained unavenged, his dignity would remain the price.

He stepped on something, which crackled. Looking down, he observed yet another set of papers that had landed on the floor amidst all the other junk that four levels of students will produce. But the name on the front sheet caught his eye.

Holly Short: Lines for Inspector Javert 

A – ha.

* * *

After ascertaining that Anna and Van Helsing had survived the incident with nothing worse than slight concussion and hat dents, everyone went back to their work – namely, with the exception of Hermione, Javert's lines. 

The exception of Hermione suddenly expanded to include the exception of Holly, when the latter realised that her lines were missing from the folder.

"D'Arvit! Where did they go?"

"What? Who's gone?"

"My lines." Holly stared in horror at her folder with its blatant lack of foolscap lines. "D'Arvit. If I don't get them back Javert will make me rewrite them _again_. D'Arvit, d'Arvit, d'Arvit."

"Oh, no," Eponine looked up with a mix of horror and pity. "I don't think anyone could stand that."

"Certainly not me," moaned Holly.

"You can't have lost them too long ago," suggested Éowyn kindly. "Perhaps you just left them in the Dining Hall."

"Right. I'll go and look."

Holly fled out of the library, followed by Éowyn, who wanted to help search.

Another twelve minutes passed as everyone else went on with their homework. Then there came the sound of running feet. Holly and Éowyn reappeared, the signs of distress clear on their faces.

"It's not there."

The Company of Heroines stared at them in dismay. "Let's all help look," proposed Elizabeth, who wanted to at least do _something_. "We can't just let you get tortured by Javert."

"No," answered Holly distractedly, "you need to finish your own lines. Or else he'll get to torture you too..."

Anna interrupted. "We're friends, remember. If we do anything we do it together. If you get tortured, we all get tortured together."

Holly grinned at all of them through her desperation. "Thanks so much. You're great pals."

But at this moment something rather awful interrupted. One of the worst things that could interrupt at a time like this.

Arwen burst into the library, slightly out of breath. "Oh, _there_ you are! We've been searching everywhere..."

"Why?" asked Hermione. "What do you want us for?"

Arwen leaned against a bookshelf to regain her breath and smoothed her hair. "Don't you remember what the Lady Galadriel said? At all?"

Everyone shook their heads, clueless.

"Rehearsals," went on Arwen. "For the Phantom of the Opera. She wants you all in the Theatre right now."

Holly clapped her hand to her mouth. "Not now."

Arwen shook her head. "She says now. Or else."

Holly let out an exclamation of frustration.

"_D'Arvit_!"

**End of Chapter**

_Next chapter coming_...** Phantom Speech and Partnering Upsets**


	14. Phantom Speech and Partnering Upsets

**A&A&A Boarding School**

Authoresses' Note: Huh. Lydia couldn't login. Hence we've got to wait till after the website update to post this. Sorry.

(sighs) Not much reviews (or at least not as much as last time) most likely because of website update, but never mind, shall thank the loyal few. Must count blessings.

**Katatonia: **Well, about anything can best Paris. Sissy thing. Thanks for reviewing LXG!

**Manveri Mirkiel: **Do you seriously know what a bootsie is, lissenya? If you do, then perhaps you won't be asking for them. Lydia says you never did go online on Monday morning (sniffs). But if worst comes to worst she will call you before she goes off to NZ – wouldn't leave without a word to her squishy one first, would she? When's class gathering?

**Asha Ice: **Don't eat apples when you type, dear. It's bad for the keyboard.

**Silver Sniper: **It might not be a bad thing, altogether, you know.

**Hotdogfish: **Whee!

**BlueDove: **Do you know, that's one of the best things we've heard in a long time. We've got a new Anti-Legolasser!

**Angel(s and Demons): **Lydia says thank you for the lovely letter, and she'll reply soon. More to be said later.

**Southerngirl4615: **Libraries, libraries. Hee. Thanks for reviewing LXG too!

**Cerse Liminara: **You know, Skeith doesn't sound like a nice person. Is he evilly sadistic or something?

**Vionny:** Yes, dear, thanks. (Lydia shrieks) Wait till you see our ending. It's sort of like the homework theory.

**Erulasse: **Hm…you sound pretty new around here…Does your name mean Eru Leaf, or something like that? Anyway, good luck on

Nothing much else to report, except that our mother inspired us to find a very preposterous theory, which concludes the idea that Anna Valerious could actually be a descendent of Troy and hence related to Hector and all. A bit mad, that thought.

Lydia begs that you review her new fanfic, League of Extraordinary Gentlewomen, and her Fictionpress fiction, Fenghuanghua. Pretty please.

Oh, and this might be the last update in a long time. We're going to New Zealand in December – we'll try squeezing in another update around the weekend, but it might not work out – and we'll only be back around Christmas. Sorry 'bout that.

We own nothing. A sad business, that.

**14. Phantom Speech and Partnering Upsets**

Galadriel was looking exceptionally pleased.

As Arwen, all-knowing granddaughter, had told them, Galadriel was only truly exceptionally pleased when she:

was mirrorgazing.

had invented a new cookie / ice cream flavour.

was going to force her students into a production that she liked and they didn't.

In this case, it was blatantly the last one. This production, they certainly did not like.

Galadriel had divided them into two groups – the Cast, and the Patch Crew (no one knew where that name came from). She set the Cast to having a read-through of the script, and hurried over towards the Patch Crew with a look on her face that did not bode at all well for them.

"I shall tell you your roles," began the Lady.

"We probably won't like them," muttered Achilles.

Galadriel looked hurt. "But of _course_ you will!" Ignoring Achilles' glower, she went on. "Some of you will provide the musical accompaniment."

After much arrangement, it was decided that Artemis would be Main Musician – since he played the best – and play the organ, the piano and the violin when required. Paris would help with the lyre, Haldir the flute, and the French Revolution would drum. Chix was given a small part with the mouth harp.

"Very good," said Galadriel. "The rest of you, you will act as extras. Most of the time you will file in, mill about, hang around, whatever you young people call it. But there will be times when you will be required to play an Important Part."

_Uh-oh_.

Galadriel spun abruptly and flashed them a dazzling smile. Most people were, in accordance, dazzled. "You eight girls. In the ballet scenes and the Masquerade scene, you will have to dance."

There was a shocked silence. Then…

"D'Arvit!"

"Merde!"

"Oh my god."

"Nonononono!!!"

"Eeeek!"

Galadriel flung herself in the way of a mass stampede towards the Theatre's exit. "No! You have to do this!" And fortunately she was still being dazzling, which was enough to stop the fleeing girls in their tracks. Galadriel herded them back to the Patch Crew.

"This is a bad dream," moaned Holly. "Any moment I'm going to wake up in the library with all my homework safe in my folder. Yes, this is all a bad dream."

"I can't dance," complained Eponine.

"I'll teach you."

"That's what I'm afraid of."

Draco Malfoy grinned sadistically. "Oh, lucky us. At least we guys don't have to dance."

Galadriel spun around and confronted him. "But it is not so! In the Masquerade Ball scene, I have choreographed some lovely ballroom dancing. And so it is, that I shall pick out eight of you for dance partners with the girls."

Another shocked silence. Fortunately most of the boys were too stunned to do anything much, so Galadriel did not have to prevent another mass stampede.

Then the complaints started.

"I can't dance either."

"I will DIE before I dance with one of THEM."

"Me too."

"Girls are contaminated, you know."

"Who said that?"

The last was uttered by Holly, who had her fists clenched in a very meaningful way. No one, wisely, answered.

Galadriel clapped her hands like a girl who has just received enough pocket money to buy the whole mall. "Well, since you've settled all your doubts, let's get started then!"

To give the Lady Galadriel credit, she had actually planned the whole thing very well. She had, as stated, carefully choreographed the dance moves for each scene, thought of costumes, and even brought the Lord Celeborn (who wasn't looking very happy with the proceedings) along to help with dance training.

Now she had lined the eight girls (all looking as if Doomsday had come a couple centuries too early) up in a row facing the huddle of boys (who were gawking at the girls as if they were lightning bolts about to strike at random). With Celeborn like a loyal henchman at her side, she strode up and down the row between them. She came to the end, turned, smiled, and called out a name.

"Lili."

The huddle of boys drew back a step. If there was anything worse than having to dance with a girl, it was having to dance with Lili Frond.

"It will have to be someone short," went on Galadriel as she surveyed 'prospective goods' (all the tall ones breathed in relief) "…let's see. Ah. You. You'll do nicely."

"What?" said Trouble, not believing his pointy ears. "Me?"

Galadriel sighed. "No, not you." She pointed at Grub, who was cowering at his brother's side. "Him. Unless, of course, you'd rather partner Lili yourself?"

"Oh, _no_ thank you!" exclaimed Trouble, shoving Grub forward. "I'm sure Grub would do a much better job, won't you, Grub?"

Grub was trembling uncontrollably. "No! Trubs! No! Mummy said…"

The rest was lost in a loud shriek as Galadriel caught hold of him, shoved Lili's hand into his and passed them on to Celeborn to deal with. Galadriel resumed her name-calling.

"Helen."

Legolas and Paris both sucked in their breath. _No. It's got to be me. It can't be HIM. Never him. Galadriel had better choose me. Come on…_

Galadriel hooked Carl up by the shoulder and paired him with Helen. "Off you go," she said to the bewildered Carl, who seemed as if someone had just dunked in lemon treacle and forgotten to wipe it off his eyes.

_No! It can't be! It should have been ME! _

_Well, at least it's not – Him._

"Holly."

_D'Arvit_, thought Holly. _Oh d'Arvit_.

Galadriel, towing Holly behind her like a rag doll, moved down the lineup of boys. "Another short one. Let's see. I'll choose…"

"……Sam."

Sam looked up. "_What_?"

Holly was equally dumbfounded. Too dumbfounded to comment.

Galadriel took both of them by the shoulders and propelled them towards Celeborn. "Now. Eponine."

Eponine looked up, a light in her eyes. _Please, let me have Marius. Please…please…please…_

"There," said Galadriel, pulling Grantaire out of the boys' crowd – he was probably too inebriated to get what was going on – "you can take him."

_No! _thought Eponine as Celeborn reeled the two of them in. She glanced back at Marius in despair…_no, don't let him go to Cosette…_

"Cosette."

Cosette smiled like the cat who's got the cream. Galadriel strode down the line towards Marius…

…and passed him. "How about Enjolras?"

_Hah! Take that!_ thought Eponine, and then winced as Grantaire accidentally stepped on her foot again.

"Hermione."

_I hope it's Ron…or Harry…I wouldn't mind either, but the rest…especially…_

And then Hermione's worst fears came true.

Galadriel reached into the midst of the boys and lugged Draco Malfoy out. Hermione saw her horror mirrored on his face.

"NO!" she shrieked, but it was too late.

Ron watched her go morosely, staring at her white face. "Poor Hermione…"

"I agree," sighed Harry.

"Éowyn."

Galadriel cast her eyes over the boys. "There. Faramir, come along." She linked their arms and sent them off together.

Éomer and Boromir, respective brothers of both, watched them go. "Poor soul," sighed Boromir sympathetically.

"Yeah," adjoined Éomer. "Faramir's going to have a tough time."

Boromir gave him a funny look. "What're you saying? I was talking about Éowyn."

"Anna."

Anna, left alone and looking seriously concerned for her well-being, watched apprehensively as Galadriel surveyed the boys who were left over. _I've got a bad feeling about this…I know she knows…will she do it on purpose…oh bad feeling, bad feeling…argh, NO!_

Galadriel tapped Van Helsing lightly on his hat brim. "You."

Everyone else breathed a sigh of deep, deep relief. Van Helsing alone stood as if shellshocked. He looked as if he could be knocked down by simply blowing at him – something Gavroche actually tried, but found reality not to be so.

"Oh, don't look so surprised," beamed Galadriel as she pulled Van Helsing out like one pulls gardening hose off the reel. "I'm sure you'll get along perfectly well. Now, Celeborn, do take care of the dears, will you? I must get back to the Cast." She swept off across the Theatre in the majestic way only the Lady Galadriel could manage. Celeborn sullenly set about obeying his wife.

"Jack keeps swearing," complained Arwen when Galadriel got back to them.

"Am not."

"Are too," retorted Elizabeth. The rest of the Cast nodded in agreement.

Galadriel sighed. "Jack, you are not to swear. It's not nice. And no, don't even _try_ thinking swear words. I can read them. Really, where do you get all that vocabulary from?"

"Well," began Jack, delighted to explain, "most of it comes from…"

He was drowned out by cries from the rest of the Cast. "JACK! We're NOT interested!"

"Whatever," growled Jack, who was now fiddling with his trihorn hat.

"Now where were you?" Galadriel took a glance at Andromache's script. "Ah, _Angel of Music_. Jack, it's your line."

Jack twisted a strand of bristly hair around his finger, clenched the script in his other hand and read: "_Insolent boy, this slave of fashion, baskin' in your glory! Ignorant fool, this brave young suitor, sharin' in me triumph!_"

"_My_ triumph, not _me_ triumph. Pronounce the 'ng's. And don't spit when you're talking."

"Me, spit? I don't spit."

"Oh yes you do."

"Quiet, love."

"Don't be like that, Jack. Anyway, swallow before you speak, so you don't spit."

Jack made a harrumphing noise.

Arwen graciously took it up as Christine. "_Angel, I hear you – speak, I listen. Stay by my side, guide me! Angel, my soul was weak, forgive me. Enter at last, master!_"

"Oh, I'm so honoured."

"Jack! Your line!"

"Savvy! _Flatterin' child you shall know me – see why in shadows I hide. Look at your face in the mirror…I'm there inside_."

"_Angel of Music, guide and guardian, grant to me your glory! Angel of Music, hide no longer. Come to me, strange angel!_"

"I'm supposed to sound mysterious here, ain't it?" mused Jack. "Right, 'ere goes…_I am your Angel. Come to me Angel of Music!_ Wait, the Angel of Music was me a while ago."

Galadriel sighed in frustration. "Do NOT question Andrew Lloyd Webber. Go on."

Aragorn came in as Raoul. "_Whose is that voice? Who is that in there?_"

"_I am you Angel of Music. Come to me Angel of Music!_"

"_Christine! Angel!_"

Galadriel beamed at all of them and rose gracefully. "Very good, all of you. Continue with the good work, there's dears. I've got to get back to my dancers, now."

The Cast was thoughtful for a while after she left. Then Arwen wondered aloud: "There are two scenes in which Christine has to kiss someone, right?"

Aragorn nodded. "First Raoul in _All I Ask of You_, then the Phantom in the last scene."

Arwen absorbed that piece of information. Then… "So I have to kiss the Phantom?"

"Say, love," put in Jack, "I really wouldn't mind…"

"Ahem!" went Aragorn loudly.

Jack backed off, grumbling to himself. "Damnit. It's like the whole bleedin' world's 'gainst me."

Back to the Patch Crew, then.

Learning ballroom dancing was proving to have a wealth of difficulties. First and foremost, the places where feet were meant to go and where they weren't.

"Ouch!"

"_Merde_! Will you bloody keep your feet on your side, Grantaire?"

"Pardon?"

"Oh _merde_."

Then there were the common arguments.

"I mean, like, learning this ball-whatever dancing is, like, totally not cool, and…"

"Er, will you, um, shut up already?"

"Huh? Shut up? You know, that's totally, like, _rude_?"

Then there were the Sources of Irritation.

"Mmhmmhmmmmhmmhmmhmmhmmmmhmm…"

"Faramir. Stop singing before your head is forfeit."

"Forfeit? How on earth are you going to do that?"

"Don't make me…"

"Well, go ahead. My head's always wanted a new experience."

"Oh, GAH!"

Then there were the really serious cases of Deep Inborn Hate. Namely the couples Malfoy and Hermione, and Anna and Van Helsing.

"I will not touch that filthy Mudblood!"

Hermione gasped in rage and seriously attempted slapping Malfoy. While Celeborn struggled with her, Galadriel bent down to Malfoy's height and began to lecture him. "Draco, dear, racial prejudice is _not_ polite. Not at all. You should really get over whatever prejudice you have against Hermione. Try and be _friends_."

Malfoy rolled his eyes. Galadriel opened her mouth to comment unhappily on that, but was distracted by a loud commotion behind her. Anna and Van Helsing had apparently tried to turn dance practice into a Taekwondo match.

"I will not, _not,_ NOT, dance with him!" shrieked Anna. Every 'not' was accentuated with a blow, to which Van Helsing responded with great fervour. Celeborn was almost punched.

"STOP!" commanded Galadriel.

Everyone within hearing distance froze. Anna and Van Helsing paused mid-punch. Celeborn paused mid-escape-attempt. Grantaire paused mid-stepping-on-Eponine's-foot-by-accident.

Galadriel swept over to Anna. "Anna Valerious," she announced, bent down and whispered something into Anna's ear. Anna's eyes began to glaze over. The fight seemed to go out of her.

Then Galadriel walked over to Malfoy. "Draco Malfoy," she added, bent down and whispered something into Malfoy's ear. Malfoy's face grew blank. The slight sneer on his face seemed suddenly to be only a faint twitch of the mouth.

Galadriel stepped back and admired her handiwork. She smiled. "You may continue."

Everyone sprang back to life. Grantaire stepped on Eponine's foot and elicited a scream. The boys who were not involved in the dancing went on with their homework. Everything returned to the same old movement – except for the two erstwhile couples.

Hermione and Van Helsing had found their partners to be strangely changed. Both seemed to be staring at something far away. They refused to even blink.

"Dance," ordered Galadriel. Malfoy and Anna sprang into action like clockwork. Malfoy grabbed Hermione's hand in a vise-like grip while Anna hooked on to Van Helsing's shoulder with an equally iron hand. Then the two began to dance, whirling and flinging their hapless partners around like rag dolls.

Van Helsing tried to break out of Anna's grasp, but the princess had suddenly grown incredibly strong. Beside them, Hermione wailed as Malfoy twisted her in a mechanical underarm-turn and swept her on.

"What did you do to them?" asked Celeborn, somewhat bemused.

Galadriel only smiled secretively. "All you've got to do is be just a little firm with them," she whispered. "I don't think you'll find them any trouble now." And she was gone, sweeping across the Theatre to deal with her Cast.

_Well_, thought Celeborn as he directed Anna and the defenceless Van Helsing through a series of complicated New Yorks, _at least it made things a lot easier_.

* * *

After an hour of intense dance training, the dancers were at last released. Exhausted, they collapsed on the floor before Galadriel, who had gathered Cast and Patch Crew together for debriefing. Anna and Malfoy were still in puppet-form, sitting ramrod straight and gazing into the distance.

"We shall hold rehearsals every day after school here, in the theatre," proclaimed Galadriel, ignoring the sudden rise of groans. "Your performance will be on Sunday night in this very theatre. Plans for the weekend: I shall not call for you on Saturday morning, so you can take a break from school," sighs of relief, "and because there will be a Masquerade Ball on Saturday night, and you are expected to get costumes ready. Yes, all of you must attend."

"On Sunday morning, you are to have CCA Orientation and Auditioning. Oh, you don't know what CCAs are? Co-Curricular Activities – you've got to join at least one and participate in it. You'll see on Sunday morning. Sunday afternoon, we'll have one last dress rehearsal, and then…then the big performance. Understood?"

Everyone nodded fervently, if only to get out of there sooner.

"Good. You are dismissed." As everyone rushed towards the exit in a desperate bid for freedom, Galadriel came over and bent over Anna and Malfoy. "You are dismissed too, my dears."

Both Anna and Malfoy seemed to come out of a deep dream, gazing around puzzled. "What happened just now?"

"I see you must have forgot," smiled Galadriel. "Don't worry, it doesn't matter. Now run along, dears." She smiled eerily.

Anna and Malfoy glanced at each other and fled accordingly. If Galadriel didn't want them to remember, it would certainly be very bad.

**End of Chapter**

_Next chapter coming…_**Technology Class and Threats on Paper**


	15. Technology Class and Threats on Paper

**A&A&A Boarding School**

Authoresses' Note: We're sorry to say so, but this really will be the last update in a long time. We won't be back till Christmas. So don't expect us till then.

Well, to thank the reviewers.

**Asha Ice: **_It's not what you think. It's not what you think. Now you will kill us. _Oops, shouldn't have mentioned that.

**Katatonia: **We are sorry to sadden you so, but everyone needs a break. And we have been waiting for this holiday for _ages and ages_……our one dream, to see the Lord of the Rings sites…oh, we would give anything for it. Sorry.

**Manveri Mirkiel: **Hello, darling. Lydia dreamt of you last night. You were wearing a brown woolly hat. You liketh our last chapter not? How sad. Perhaps you will prefer this one more – wait, you won't. Most likely you will turn up on our doorstep with a lot of nice sharp needles. Erm, must run. Must run!

**Angel(s and Demons): **Is that your new favourite book now? Anyway, Lydia sent a letter to the Yahoo account. We're supporting no one in particular, since we don't particularly like either, but we hope Taufik wins. Because we dread to think what Sylvester would do on World Idol stage to the English language. He wrecked Music of the Night! (wail in anguish)

**Cerse Liminara: **Believe us, if we knew what it was, the whole world would be ourplayground right now – not something you want.

**Silver Sniper: **Short and sweet, _encore_.

**Hotdogfish: **Why thank you.

**Dalamar Nightson:** Thank you for reviewing so many times – and don't say anything about _her – Keira Knightley – it was meant to be a surprise, you know…shhh…_

**Tsuki Yume: **We wouldn't hate anyone because he's good-looking. That's as bad as liking someone because he's good-looking. And we have nothing against Will Turner (although he really is quite silly, the poor boy). Have we bashed him or anything? Oh dear, we meant to be nicer…

**Elenhin: **Blow, blow, blown away…

**Kasey Rider: **Somehow we can't figure out why Galadriel always bullies Anna more. We suspect it's because Anna starts most of the fights, but really we don't know. Galadriel, as we all know, has her own reasons.

We're sure many of you are puzzled _why exactly_ we paired Holly with Sam in the dancing. This was due to a most unfortunate spat between the two of us on Holly's partner – Lydia wanted Artemis, whereas Rukuelle was for Trouble. After a long argument we came eventually to a truce and chose a random hobbit instead. And that is the reason for that queer arrangement.

This is pretty long – thirteen pages – and we hope that keeps you happy through December. We promise to tell you all about New Zealand and the LotR sites, if you like. Merry Christmas in advance, and enjoy our last chapter in a long time.

**15. Technology Class and Threats on Paper**

Dinner, which consisted of a curious mix of fish, linguine pasta and several unknown herb stews (new experiment of Galadriel's, likely), was filled with a frenzied craze on finishing Javert's lines. Not an easy task, since the old hand-aches were acting up again. The Company of Heroines had long given up on the search for Holly's missing homework – Holly insisted they go take dinner instead – and were halfheartedly doing their own.

Holly poked dully at a suspicious piece of red mush, decided not to take any chances and fished it out with her fork, dumping it on the side of her plate. "Perhaps someone took it."

Éowyn paused at line seven-hundred-and-seventeen to swallow a few mouthfuls of herb stew. "Who would want to take your homework?"

"Someone who didn't want to finish theirs?" suggested Elizabeth.

"There's that," admitted Éowyn.

Holly didn't answer, occupied with trying to keep the linguine from slipping off her fork and splashing in the stew.

Eponine, who had returned from the coffee machine, returned to wolfing down the food. Eponine had no problem with any sort of food, mysterious or not. As she often recounted to the others with relish, she had spent her childhood living off garbage heap raids, so food here was heaven for her. "Message for you, Holly," she called between mouthfuls. "Here." She shoved a piece of torn notepaper at Holly, who took it curiously.

"To Holly Short," she read.

"_I am pleased to say that I have in my custody your homework for Javert. As you know, I objected, and still do object, to your dishonourable defeat of me on the first day of school. I cannot abide being defeated by an unfair opponent in battle. So, I give you one chance to admit publicly, to the whole class, that your winning that fight was due to dishonourable cheating. If this is not done before 10.30am by tomorrow, rest assured that I will destroy your homework utterly. Do not think of using this message as evidence against me, as it will self-destruct after you have read it._

_Please do consider your options_

_From_

_You-know-who_"

The Company of Heroines stared in shock at the note in Holly's hands. Holly herself was shaking in barely controlled rage, her knuckles white, fingers digging hard into the paper. There was an angry blush creeping up under her auburn fringe. "How _dare_ he!" she snarled. "_Dishonourable cheating_…if there's anything dishonourable, it's _this_!"

Eponine leapt up and cast around frantically, but those familiar blonde braids were nowhere to be seen. "_Salaud_!" she cried. "_Merde_! Oh, if only I'd known, I'd have strangled him at the coffee machine……"

"_Fiul unui căţea_!" swore Anna in her native Romanian tongue. "_Laş…_He didn't even dare give it to you himself. Oh don't worry, we'll find him and kill him together…"

"Stop, stop," interrupted Éowyn, "we've got to think through this sensibly. He's got Holly's homework, so we've got to tread carefully. Now, the note…"

The words died in her throat as the notepaper suddenly crackled and shrivelled up into a faded pile of ash, which dispersed into the air silently.

"D'Arvit," swore Holly. "Where would he get something like that?"

"I know!" exclaimed Elizabeth suddenly.

The other four turned to her in surprise. Elizabeth's eyes had lit up in memory. "I know who's got notepaper like that – Hermione Granger!"

"Hermione," mused Éowyn. "Ah, yes, she's a witch, she would own that sort of thing. We have Clue One."

Hermione was seated as usual with Harry and Ron, opposite the Short Alliance. Ron was regaling Merry and Pippin with tales of the exploits of his brothers Fred and George. Frodo was admiring Harry's scar, much to the latter's discomfort.

They looked up at the approach of the Company of Heroines. "Oh, hi. Are you looking for something?"

Holly scrambled onto the bench beside Hermione, her face serious. "Did Legolas borrow anything from you today?"

Hermione scrunched up her face in thought. "No…oh, wait, I think he did. It was only a piece of Self-Destruct Notepaper. He didn't even say what he wanted it for."

Éowyn's face was grim. "So that settles it then."

Hermione stared around, puzzled at the looks on their faces. "Settles what? Is…is something wrong?"

They told her.

Hermione drew back in horror when Holly finished her tale. "That's…that's too awful!"

"Sounds like the sort of thing Malfoy would do," commented Ron morosely.

Across the table, Gimli clenched his fork angrily. "That elf deserves what's coming to him."

There was a stony silence. Which was broken, like most silences were, by Pippin's cheerful voice.

"D'you know, I think I saw Legolas with your homework!"

Everyone else was at once alert. Merry shook Pippin drastically. "You did? Where? What's he done with it? Tell us, Pip!"

"If you'll quit shaking me." Merry released him at once. Pippin composed himself and told them. "He was carrying a huge stack of paper to the dormitory, and being very careful about it, 'cos he kept glancing around to see if anyone was looking – of course he didn't see me, Merry, I'm not that stupid – and then he went to the locker by his bed, put the papers in and locked it. I didn't think much of it, y'know, but now I remember…"

"Thank you oh-so-much," replied Elizabeth fervently. "You have no idea how helpful that is."

Pippin beamed. "Always glad to be of use!"

But Holly was frowning again. "Still, how do we get it out? We're not allowed in the boys' dormitory…and even if we were, we couldn't open the locker."

Another stony silence. But this time, it wasn't Pippin who broke it, but Mulch.

"Seems like this time, you need to do some burgling. Some skilful burgling."

Everyone turned to him. "You know someone who can break into Legolas's locker?"

Mulch said nothing, only grinned smugly. Slowly understanding dawned on Holly's face. "_You_ can break into Legolas's locker. You're a _burglar_."

Mulch nodded superiorly. "Best in the business."

"Professional, no less," muttered Elizabeth. "Oh! So that's where Paris's gold bar w – "

Mulch hurriedly shushed her. "Not so loud!"

"Why? What can Paris do to anyone?"

Mulch shook his head. "Nah, it's not him. But his brother Hector, now that's one to reckon with."

The familiar wicked gleam was back in Holly's eyes. "So…Mulch, is it? Would you do me a favour, then?"

Mulch glanced at her suspiciously. "You mean…with our dear friend Legolas."

"Yes, our dear friend Legolas."

Mulch considered. "What's in it for me?" he asked eventually.

Holly winked at him. "You probably wouldn't like it if someone leaked to Hector where his brother's gold bar went. Or even worse…" she paused for dramatic effect, "…Professor Priam."

Mulch swallowed.

"So…" Holly grinned at him. "How about that?"

Third stony silence. Then Mulch laughed.

"Well, you got me there, Holly." He sighed. "Very well. I'll do it. But willingly, because he offended my pal once." He gestured at Gimli.

"But burgling," interrupted Hermione, "is rather unscrupulous, don't you think?"

Harry sighed. "Hermione, there are times when one has to resort to really drastic measures."

"Okay…" Hermione still looked uncertain, but after that she was inclined to leave them alone.

This suited them perfectly, because they began to plan.

* * *

Bedtime came. Bedtime was when The Plan would be carried out.

As a matter of fact, the dormitory layout was perfect for this sort of plan. Mulch's bed was next to Legolas's. The hobbits and Gimli slept directly opposite them. Excellent.

Merry and Pippin were to initiate The Plan. As a matter of fact, they were especially enjoying their role in the whole thing – since it involved hitting Legolas with something.

"You may do the honours, Pip."

"Really? Thanks a bunch."

Legolas, who was reclining on his bed reading an Elvish novel, stiffened as something struck his pointed ear. He glanced down. An innocent paper pellet was lying next to his pillow. He looked up just in time as another one rolled down the middle of his book.

"Oops!" called Pippin. "Sorry about that!" Even as he spoke Merry hurled another paper pellet at Legolas's foot.

Legolas fumed. Swiftly he put down his book, got out of bed and strode towards the two hobbits, who continued pelting pellets at him.

Frodo and Sam had been sitting by Mulch's bed. Now Frodo whispered: "He's gone!" to Mulch, who accordingly dropped the book he had been pretending to read, rolled off the bed, landed silently on the carpeted floor and turned to Legolas's locker.

This was the dangerous part. It was to be hoped Legolas did not get around to beating up Merry and Pippin. Hence, Gimli had been stationed nearby for the purpose of protecting the two hobbits.

"Why you little…" began Legolas. Gimli swiftly stepped in front of him. "Whaddya want?"

Mulch examined the lock. It was a fairly simple combination padlock. He pressed his hairy ear to it as he began to twist the dial.

Frodo and Sam stood blocking Mulch from view and looking innocent – and for Frodo in particular, looking innocent was extremely easy.

"They were throwing paper pellets at me!" exclaimed Legolas.

"We said, it was by accident!"

"Liar. You were doing it on purpose."

"Prove that."

"Yeah, prove that!"

Mulch's ultra-sensitive hearing caught a tiny click. First bolt down. Carefully he twisted the dial the other way.

"Step out of the way, dwarf."

"No."

"I haven't got any time for this."

"I won't step aside."

"Oh, please. Stop defending them."

"You should be ashamed, bullying them. Pick on someone your own size."

Second bolt down. Mulch twisted the dial one last time.

"Hurry up," mouthed Sam. "They won't hold him for long…"

The lock clicked open.

Mulch stifled an exclamation of victory and immediately began his search. It didn't take too long; the stack of paper was right on top. He checked to make sure Holly's name was on them, flipped through to be certain, and then passed them to Frodo. Frodo automatically hid them behind his back and slid out of the door. Mulch locked the locker again and rolled back into bed.

"I suppose you're counted as someone my own size."

"I'm not looking for a fight, elf. Just leave them alone."

"Excuse me? They were annoying me!"

"Were we? We said, it was an _accident_!"

Outside in the corridor, Eponine and Elizabeth were leaning in the doorway of the girls' dormitory. Frodo trotted up to them, glanced around discreetly, and handed them the stack of paper. Eponine flipped through them to check, ascertained they were genuine, and slipped into the dormitory to return them.

Elizabeth gave Frodo a grateful smile. "Tell your friends we really appreciate this. And that the Short Alliance will henceforth have the friendship and alliance of the Company of Heroines."

"Thanks!" replied Frodo, bowed slightly and scampered back.

Legolas clenched his fist. "Get out of the way, or else."

Merry stuck his head over Gimli's shoulder. "We said we're sorry already! Besides, you don't want another detention, do you?"

Legolas gritted his teeth, breathing hard. Then, to the relief of the three, he shot them a last look of loathing, turned on his heel and stomped back to bed. The Short Alliance held their breath. Would he notice something was amiss?

Legolas climbed back into bed, picked up the Elvish novel and resumed reading.

Merry let out a sigh of relief and leaned over to Pippin conspiratorially. "Mission accomplished."

* * *

Holly Short's hands felt like they would drop off. Her eyes were red and ringed from staying up till 3 am last night – no, today morning – to finish her lines with a torchlight under the sheets. Her brain felt like it had been soaked in vinegar. But she was clutching her lines, her precious, completed lines, and she felt saturated with relief.

She and Éowyn climbed the last flight of steps to the staffroom. Éowyn had offered to help the other three girls pass their homework up along with hers and Holly. Now they searched amongst the electronic dashboard for Javert's name. Holly found it and pressed the button.

Immediately a computer screen flicked down in front of them. A conveyor belt appeared, the belt receding into the dark regions of the machine. In crisp tones the computer said: "Please put your homework on the conveyor belt. Indicate your names and year."

Puzzled, they both complied. Éowyn dumped the stack on the conveyor belt while Holly typed in "First-year: Holly Short, Eponine Thénardier, Elizabeth Swann, Anna Valerious, Éowyn daughter of Éomund."

"Thank you," answered the computer mechanically as the conveyor belt cranked into life and began moving the stack of paper into the machine. "Your homework shall be transferred to Inspector Javert's inbox. Have a nice day."

When the homework had completely disappeared into the machine, the computer folded back into the wall, the conveyor belt slid out of sight, and everything looked rather like it had a few minutes ago.

"How queer," remarked Éowyn.

They turned to go, but bumped into someone. Holly stepped back, blinking. She had seen centaurs before, but Éowyn, who had not, was looking suitably taken aback.

"D'Arvit!" yelled the centaur, as he dropped a large cardboard box on one of his hooves. Whatever was in the box clanged and jingled. Still cursing, he bent down to pick up the box and check it for damage. One corner was dented.

"D'Arvit," commented the centaur dryly. Then he seemed to realise that Holly and Éowyn were standing behind him. "Oh, sorry. Am I blocking your way?"

"No," said Holly. "The boxes are, though."

In the meantime while they had been handing up their homework, a large flood of boxes had managed to spread across the corridor in front of the staffroom entrance.

"Oh." The centaur dropped the box he was carrying and surveyed the blockage. "Sorry 'bout that. Been handing up homework, have you?"

Éowyn nodded. "That very strange machine…"

"…was my invention," finished the centaur for her. "Makes handing up homework most convenient, doesn't it? I'm Foaly, by the way. Centaur and unmatched technology genius."

Holly said nothing, fact being that she couldn't think of anything to say that was neither sarcastic nor untrue.

"If you haven't heard of me," went on Foaly, "then you must be first-years. And if you're first-years…then I'm taking your class in ten minutes time." He gazed at the boxes around him with something like despair. "Now…how am I going to get all of this there in ten minutes?"

"We could help," offered Holly.

"Really?" Foaly perked up. "That's very nice of you to offer. Of course, sooner or later you'll be regretting that decision – but since you did offer, I might as well make the best of it. Well, pick up that lot, and off we go to the Technology Lab."

It took them several trips. Holly was beginning to understand what Foaly meant by regretting that decision. "What is in those boxes?" she panted as she set another one down in the Lab. "They're _heavy_!"

Foaly grinned at her. "You'll see."

By the time they had moved all the boxes, the rest of the class had arrived. Most of them were eyeing the boxes sceptically. Holly and Éowyn dumped their last loads and dragged themselves off to join the class.

Foaly clip-clopped in between the boxes. "Don't mind the boxes – you may go to your seats." They did so, noting that the desks were entirely empty apart from several switches in the centre.

"This is technology class, as you know," went on Foaly. "And I must warn you, the sort of things you will learn in this class are fairly dangerous – so at all times you will pay all attention to me."

Achilles, as most people had come to expect, put up his hand. "Why?"

Foaly glared at him. "Who's the brilliant smart-aleck intellectual know-it-all techie-whiz teacher here?"

"Not you?"

"Oh yes me. So pay attention to every single thing I say, because it might well save your poor ignorant lives." Foaly was clearly annoyed now. "Really, I am an unappreciated genius."

At the back, Mulch tried and failed to stifle a derisive snort.

Foaly glared roughly in his direction, and went on. "But since you are only first-years, and hence probably lack the cranial capacity to appreciate my more complex forms of structured machinery, I will start off with a basic sort of technology." He pressed a button somewhere on his desk, and automatically a single word was projected onto the screen behind him.

COMPUTERS

Artemis seriously wondered whether he should roll his eyes.

"Of course," continued Foaly. "I want you all to truly _appreciate_ the wonderful things about a computer. And the best way for you to learn that is – "

Majority of class decided this was not going to turn out for the best.

" – to construct computers yourselves from scratch."

Majority of class decided they had been right.

Foaly was now positively doing a four-legged jig from sheer delight. "Come on, what're you waiting for? Every desk send one member to collect a box. Hurry up!"

Very soon, each desk of three was crowded miserably round a large box full of metal parts and attempting to make sense of Foaly's instruction sheets. Foaly himself went around giving sagely advice and observing their prowess.

Holly had to admit, this time the Mud Boy was actually quite useful.

"What does _that_ mean?"

"That? It means you connect wires A and M, like that, see. Oh, let me do it. The two of you are too clumsy."

Both of the girls bristled, but kept quiet and let Artemis perform the delicate operation of twisting the wires together. After that, it became a tradition among the three of them to let Artemis do the intellectual work, Éowyn the basic strength-requiring work and Holly the squeezing-into-really-tight-places-to-fix-screws-and-whatnot work. It suited all of them perfectly.

Foaly noticed this harmony of work and approved. He often wished that the other groups would be more sensible and less – well, less stupid.

"What do you think you are doing?"

Legolas jumped, startled. "Oh. Erm, nothing. Just, erm, testing wires."

"Indeed." Foaly eyed the wire that was wound suspiciously tight around Paris's neck, and Paris's blue gasping countenance. Legolas hastily dropped the wire. Paris fell to his knees, clutching his throat and gagging.

"Please make sure the wires are used as stated in the instruction sheets," said Foaly severely, and moved on.

Anna and Van Helsing were at it again.

"Blue wire."

"No, red wire."

"No, blue wire."

"How do you know?"

"Instruction sheet."

"It just says 'Wire', it doesn't say _which_ wire."

"So it goes to say it's the blue wire, then."

"Is not."

"Is."

"Not."

"Is!"

"Not!"

"Erm, people?" queried Carl, somewhat feebly. "I've already fixed the keyboard…it was both wires, you know. When there are, um, like, two holes, you should sort of realise it's, you know, two wires…"

"Stow it, Carl."

Everyone was alarmed by a large electrical explosion at the back of the class. From the looks at it, Captain Jack Sparrow had been at work again.

Will, who was looking distinctly charred, dragged himself upright from where he had been sprawled across the half-finished D-drive. "Jack! Don't tell me you did that on purpose."

Elizabeth scrambled up to a sitting position beside him. She was less charred, partly because Will had thrown out an arm to shield her when the explosion had occur. "What is it with you and flashy explosions, Mister?"

Jack shrugged. He was definitely the worst of the lot. His hair looked positively singed, and his face was entirely covered in the gritty black remains of what had once been rubber insulator and fuse. His grin, however, was not in the least affected. "Sorry, love. Couldn't resist."

After which, his eyes rolled up into his head and he keeled over.

Foaly trotted over distastefully. "Electric shock, and I shouldn't be surprised. What sort of respectable technician does that sort of thing? Hmph."

"Will he be all right?" asked Will tentatively.

Foaly checked. "Probably. For all the flashiness it was only a minor shock. I think we'll just leave him alone."

"But shouldn't he go to the hospital wing?"

Foaly gave Elizabeth a funny look. "_No_. Obviously, my dear young lady, you haven't been to the hospital wing before, if you can make that sentence so lightly."

Elizabeth stared, but Foaly had already gone off. "What's with the hospital wing?" she whispered.

Will shrugged, and set about dragging Jack's body to a spot on the floor unoccupied by computer parts.

* * *

Jack woke up only at the end of class. This, reasoned Elizabeth, was good, because Jack unconscious meant a lot less trouble. And flashy explosions. A good thing.

"Pack up your work in the box," ordered Foaly, waving his hand around his nose – the smell of burnt insulator was certainly a lot more pervading than expected. "You can continue next lesson. Now get yourselves out of here. I have to install a new air freshener."

Jack suddenly bolted upright at the back of the class. "They're comin' up on starboard!" he yelled, greatly startling his two deskmates. "Have at 'em with the cannons, now. Cannons out! Cannons, savvy?"

Will was not in the mood for such ravings. The D drive parts had suddenly begun sparking, and he was trying very harriedly to pick them up without getting electrocuted. "Shut up, Jack."

"Righto, mate," replied Jack, and went back to sleep.

As Legolas put the last part in the box and dropped the whole thing onto Paris's foot just for the sake of it, he glanced surreptitiously towards the small auburn head at the front of the class. So far, Holly had not acceded to his requests.

She had only one hour and a half more to do so.

**End of Chapter**

_Next chapter coming…_**Obstacle Courses and Obnoxious Groupmates**


	16. Obstacle Courses and Obnoxious Groupmate...

**A&A&A Boarding School**

Authoresses' Note: Yes, we're back. Yes, New Zealand was lovely. Yes, we deserve to have our wretched necks wrung for taking so long to update. Since it is, however, impractical to fill up a page with 'sorries', just once will suffice. Sorry.

We'll try not to take too long on review answers (only will answer important ones) because this is a 20 page long chapter and we don't want to make it worse.

**Katatonia: **In truth, Legolas didn't check his locker because he didn't expect anyone to steal it (probably would notice Holly in the boys' dorm in seconds) and he wouldn't want to draw attention to himself by constantly checking. He was very discreet about it, see.

**Manveri Mirkiel:** Sorry. Forgot about tin hat. Will be there next time. (avoids pins)

**Mefi:** We're glad _someone_ approves of our Legolas characterization. Thank you!

**Asha Ice: **Hah! Beat you! At last! 249 – new record in class.

**Lee: **Since you asked, we shall reveal that Faramir will undergo psychological advancement. That is all.

**Capricornus152:** Achilles and Briseis…ooooh. You will see.

**EvilExpressions:** Of course we follow S'pore Idol. That ending was so touching – the part when Taufik gave the mike to Sylvester. We know it's been a month. Sorry?

Will rush it. Shoo. Shoo.

**16. Obstacle Courses and Obnoxious Groupmates**

The venue for the gathering of the next class was slightly out of the ordinary. It was situated at the edge of a cliff.

To fully understand that sentence, one must first be familiar with the topography of A&A&A. The boarding school itself was built atop a sort of tabletop plateau, which made it higher than the rest of the surrounding land. Currently, the first-years were standing at the edge of plateau and looking down at the panoramic spread below them.

Their new instructor was relatively short. Most of the class towered over her. But, as they had learnt from the commander's Firearms lessons, height was not a deciding factor in how fearsome a teacher could be.

"Welcome," declared Wing Commander Vinyáya with a grin, "to Physical Education. Like the view?"

Everyone had to agree it was pretty scenic. The view gave one to seriously appreciate exactly how large A&A&A extended. Below them stretched the massive A&A&A Jungle (which was, in truth, not really very tropical; just a whole enormous lot of trees clumped together with various large clearings). The land was also pretty hilly – one could see several fairly high hills and fairly deep valleys dotting the forest landscape. A shining glittering ribbon of river snaked in between the dark green patches of jungle.

"Now," said Vinyáya, "do you see that red flag?"

The class strained to see over the edge and agreed that there was a small red dot on the unforested landscape at the cliff's base.

"That's the beginning of the Obstacle Course."

They stared at her with acute puzzlement for a while. Someone at the back of the crowd muttered, "Obstacle course?"

"The Obstacle Course," began Vinyáya by way of explanation, "is your assignment for the day." Like Root, she tended to speak to her students in military terms. It circles the whole of the A&A&A Jungle, gives you a lovely tour of the surroundings and is extremely physically gruelling. It is also a relay race."

The people in the class who tended to detest running gulped and looked apprehensive.

"Now, I want you to get into five groups of nine people each."

There followed a long, still silence. Eventually Vinyáya said edgily: "Well? Get into groups already!"

"D'you mean," ventured Elizabeth with a measure of disbelief in her voice, "you mean you'll let us choose our own groups?"

"Of course!" Vinyáya snorted. "Whyever not? Unless, of course, you_ want_ me to help split you up…"

"Oh no! No thank you!" Extremely glad to be able for once to do something of their own free will, the class automatically split up.

The Company of Heroines shot together faster than a clutch of magnets. The Short Alliance huddled in a group. The French Revolution, chanting loudly, went into marching formation. Various couples or trios clung to each other and glanced around to search for vacancies in the larger groups.

Éowyn detached herself momentarily and came back dragging Éomer. "This is my brother," she told the others. "Can he join?"

"Sure." Éomer was swiftly inducted.

Eponine was looking across the crowd's heads to see if she could snatch Marius before Cosette found him. "Marius? Marius? Oh, there he is!" Dashing over, she latched onto Marius's shoulder. "Marius! D'you want to join us? Oh, come on."

Marius, who had originally been about to ask the French Revolution, looked confused. "Erm…well…"

Eponine made the decision for him. She yanked him off back to her group.

Unfortunately for her, Cosette saw that.

Glancing over her shoulder, Eponine saw her arch-rival coming. "Quickly!" she hissed at the Company of Heroines. "Get two more people – any two – before _she_ gets here!" She flung around hastily, and caught sight of Trouble and Grub patrolling the borders. "Hey. You two. Wanna join?"

"Wha?" mumbled Grub.

Trouble saw an opening. "Okay."

Eponine pulled the two of them into the group just as Cosette panted up. She came face to face with a smiling Eponine. "Oh, I'm _so_ sorry, dear! But we haven't got any space left…do go somewhere else. _Au revoir!_" And Eponine sent her on her way.

"I'm not sure that was a nice thing to do," pointed out Elizabeth doubtfully.

"It wasn't," admitted Eponine. "But in such circumstances…" she gave a theatrical sigh, "one must resort to…such things. Sad, really."

"We need three more people," pointed out Gimli. "See any spare people around?"

"How about them?" suggested Frodo, pointing.

Gimli glanced in that direction and blanched when he saw Legolas, Paris and Helen. "Are you kidding? _No_."

Harry wandered over. "D'you want three more people?"

Pippin bounced around. "Oh yes! There're three of you, right? Ron and Hermione? Sure!"

Aragorn and Arwen were naturally together. Hector had joined them too. He was trying to find Paris in the crowd, but so far had not succeeded.

Achilles bounded over. "Can I join?"

Aragorn stared at him hesitantly, then relented. "Oh, very well."

Achilles beamed. Then his eyes fixed on something – someone – behind Aragorn's shoulder. "Ah!" He dashed over. "Briseis! Join us?"

Before Briseis herself could say anything, Andromache appeared over her shoulder. She looked disapproving. "Briseis," she began, glaring at Achilles, "perhaps we should go somewhere else…"

Before Achilles could say anything in his defence, Hector appeared over _his_ shoulder. "Briseis!"

"Hector!" exclaimed Briseis happily. She turned to Andromache and patted her arm reassuringly. "Don't worry, my cousin's there. Come on." They joined the group, escorted by Achilles, who was looking ready to worship Hector.

On the other side of the crowd, Boromir and Faramir eventually decided that they had better join the French Revolution – not that they really wanted to, but somehow the other groups they had asked all seemed full.

A pale white face appeared – that of Artemis Fowl. He was not looking happy with the proceedings. "I suppose you have a vacancy?"

Enjolras, who considered himself leader of the pack, made a careful census and agreed that Artemis was right.

"Very well," drawled Artemis. "Then may I join?"

Enjolras surveyed the boy suspiciously. He had the faint premonition that this would not turn out well. But it would be very rude to turn Artemis away…

"Fine," sighed the revolution leader. "You're in."

Carl bounced up to Aragorn, a bored-looking Van Helsing in tow. "Erm, if you don't mind, could we…"

"Join? Sure," replied Achilles, who was still in a very good mood.

Carl looked relieved. "Thank you!" He nudged Van Helsing. "Say thank you," he whispered.

"Thanks," muttered Van Helsing, wondering why he even bothered with Carl.

Hector finally caught sight of Paris, and fought his way over to him. "Paris, my group's over there. Come and join us."

Paris was caught in a dilemna. He shot a glance at Helen, waiting like a golden angel of light at the edge of the crowd, and Legolas, much less angelic, holding her arm and smirking at him. He turned reluctantly back to Hector.

"I'm sorry, but I've got another group."

Hector glared at him. "I don't believe this!" he hissed at Paris, who flinched. "You would abandon me for that…that…" Evidently he did not think too well of Helen. With a muttered curse, he dropped Paris and stalked off back to Aragorn and Co.

"Here's our last member," said Aragorn. He gestured at a pale-faced Draco Malfoy, who nodded curtly.

Hector nodded back, running a hand distractedly through his bristly mane of hair. He was still having difficulty accepting Paris's betrayal. For that witch, no less. His brother would never hear the end of this.

Paris, gazing after his brother's back regretfully, was jerked out of his trance by Will Turner's voice. "Erm, sorry to bother…but all the other groups are full."

"Yep," put in Chix Verbil over the buzzing of his wings. "No vacancies."

"So can we, like, join?" asked Lili Frond.

Legolas looked unhappy with this offer. "No vacancies in the other groups?"

"Nah," confirmed Jack Sparrow.

"Not one," murmured Cosette dully. She was still taking Eponine's curt dismissal very badly.

"You aren't willing to take us in?" spoke Haldir. To him it was most likely impossible any group should not be begging for him to join.

Legolas and Paris stared around at the various member-wannabes. Eventually Legolas caved in. "Oh, very well, _fine_. Join."

"Thank you," replied Haldir haughtily.

Once all the groups had reported to Vinyáya, she directed them to follow her down a long winding path towards the beginning of the Obstacle Course. "And since it is a relay race," she called over her shoulder as she navigated a sharp turn around the cliff face, "give each member of your group a number. Member 1 will take Part 1 of the Obstacle Course, Member 2 Part 2, and so on. There are nine parts to the Obstacle Course, which is just nice. I expect the arrangements to be finished by the time we reach the cliff base."

The groups began to discuss. Legolas and Paris naturally both wanted to go first, until Helen intervened by volunteering to be Member 1. Naturally, they then both had to accede.

By the time the five groups had reached the cliff base, the group colours and orders ran as such:

_Red Group_:

1. Anna 2. Éowyn 3. Éomer 4. Holly 5. Eponine 6. Marius 7. Elizabeth 8. Grub 9. Trouble

_Green Group_:

1. Aragorn 2. Arwen 3. Hector 4. Achilles 5. Briseis 6. Andromache 7. Van Helsing 8. Carl 9. Malfoy

_Orange Group_:

1. Harry 2. Ron 3. Hermione 4. Frodo 5. Sam 6. Merry 7. Pippin 8. Mulch 9. Gimli

_Blue Group_:

1. Enjolras 2. Faramir 3. Gavroche 4. Grantaire 5. Feuilly 6. Courfeyrac 7. Joly 8. Artemis 9. Boromir

_Gold Group:_

1. Helen 2. Will 3. Chix 4. Lili 5. Jack 6. Haldir 7. Cosette 8. Paris 9. Legolas

"Very good," finished Vinyáya. "Now, Members 2 to 9, do you see those markers? They mark eight paths, each which leads to their respective part of the Obstacle Course. Follow the path that corresponds to your number. You have five minutes to get to your stations before the race begans."

No one needed any more telling. Eight members of each group immediately set off hastily on their respective paths, which quickly wound into the undergrowth of the Jungle and disappeared.

Vinyáya waited five minutes. The first members of each group, namely Aragorn, Anna, Enjolras, Harry and Helen fingered their brightly coloured batons and stared nervously at the track ahead of them.

At the end of five minutes, Vinyáya ordered: "Get ready."

Anxiously they obeyed.

"Just follow the track. Clear any obstacles in your way. Fastest group wins – a prize. On your marks. Get set. And……go!"

They took off.

The first obstacle wasn't really very far off. After following the track through a tangle of trees and up and down a couple of hills, they came back onto flat clear land. There the obstacle lay in wait. A wall.

The wall was around the same height as Aragorn's head. It was built of bricks and stretched across the visible land like a reddish snake lying long in the sun, each end disapppearing into the forest on either side. The track ran on beyond it, across a slight crest and out of sight.

"Here goes," thought all five, and raced for the wall.

Aragorn got to it way ahead of the others. In a matter of seconds he had put his baton between his teeth, placed both palms flat on the top of the wall, and with an enormous display of strength vaulted full-body across it. He sprang to his feet on the other side and was off up the track in a flash.

Anna was next. She did not stop even as she reached the wall; instead she put on full speed and rushed towards it headlong. Her momentum carried her halfway up the wall; she conquered the rest by flipping forward and somersaulting across. Landing crouched like a cat, she leapt up and tore after the distant figure of Aragorn.

Harry and Enjolas reached the wall at approximately the same time. And of course, they found much difficulty in getting over it. It took them quite some time to find the necessary handholds – fairly rare in the smooth brick – and claw their way up. Finally, both tumbled over, landed with several unhappy cracking noises, rose unsteadily and went on running best as they could.

That left Helen.

Helen found, after several futile attempts, that wall-climbing wasn't as easy as the others made it look. The Greek peplum also got in the way very cumbersomely. Wiping the sweat from her perfect face, she headed off towards the end of the wall. There _had_ to be an end, she reasoned, they couldn't go on building the wall forever. And then she would simply walk around and follow the wall back to the track.

The builders of the wall had obviously realised the wall couldn't go on forever. And hence they had instead grown an impenetrable thorny hedge at both ends to discourage cheaters.

Helen stared up at the merrily bristling thorns in despair. Oh dear.

It took Helen a very, very long time to get across the wall. It also took extreme effort, several cuts, bruises and long ugly tears in her dress. With grazed hands and tearstained cheeks, she clutched her baton and limped miserably up the track after the rest of the long gone runners.

Team Gold was currently last in the running.

By the time Helen reached Station 2, all the other runners had taken off. Only Will remained, bouncing impatiently. "Where've you been?" he snapped, snatching the baton crossly and without waiting for a reply, dashed off after the distant moving dots.

Back to the frontline. Éowyn of Red had managed to wrest the lead from Arwen of Green, and was now streaming up the hill as fast as her legs could carry her. Green, although pushing hard, was falling behind. Furthermore, Faramir of Blue was catching up. The Elf and Man strove for some time, until Faramir finally managed to overtake Arwen. By the time he had crossed the hill crest, Éowyn was on a downhill sprint towards the next obstacle.

It rose out of the green earth towards her, a mammoth and impassable rock formation – with only one way of passing through: a half-metre tall gap at the bottom, just a tiny space between the rock and the ground, barely large enough for a body to fit through.

Éowyn came to a halt at its edge. Cautiously she got down on hands and knees and peered into the darkness of the narrow gap. _By Éorl, that is _small. _It should have been Holly doing this. I hope I'm not claustrophobic. _Looking back, she saw Faramir approaching and with a sigh, inserted her head into the gap. After some wriggling, the rest of her body followed painfully slowly. The space was so narrow she could not even crawl, and had to slither with her belly flat on the ground. _I'm not claustrophobic. Am I?_

Faramir got to the scene just as Éowyn's foot disappeared underneath. He hastened to follow – although with much more difficulty, as Éowyn was much slighter in build than he was.

Éowyn heard the sounds of Faramir slithering after her, and hastily increased slithering speed. She attempted looking back, but struck her head on a rock projection for her efforts. With a muffled expletive, she turned back to the slit of light at the end of the passage and commenced wriggling determinedly.

Back at the entrance, Arwen peered into the depths of the tunnel with a certain amount of dread. She had no choice, however. Hector was waiting on the other side, and she was using up valuable time here. With bated breath she eased herself in and put out a hand to drag herself forward.

After scrabbling in the muck accumulated underneath the rock, she found a grip and yanked forward. She put out the other hand, the one with the baton in it…

…and somehow she lost her grip, and the baton rolled away.

Arwen exclaimed something in Sindarin that would have seriously shocked Elrond, had he heard it, and groped frantically. Inching forward, she finally felt it and yanked hard. The baton was stuck.

Arwen pulled hard, cried tears of frustration, pulled harder. Beside her, Ron twisted past, scraping his elbows in a dogged attempt to get to the end of the tunnel. Reach, grab, pull. Reach, grab, pull.

Something was tickling his face. Something sticky. Ron froze. Sticky?

Then he felt it. Tiny legs crawling over his cheek. He had blundered into a spider's web.

Halfway through the rock passage, Ron panicked. Screaming, he struck at the web with the baton in a futile attempt to get it off. The baton only got entangled more. Still screaming, Ron squirmed forward blindly, hitting his head several times against the rocky roof. He only calmed down when he was out of the tunnel in bright sunlight, picking frantically at the pieces of web that still clung to the baton.

"You look terrible," pointed out Hermione when he arrived.

"Don't…matter…" muttered Ron, flicking unhappily at strands of web on his sleeve. "Run! Go on!"

Hermione hastily ran after the first two, overtaking Gavroche without much difficulty. Éomer was way ahead, however.

There was the sound of heavy but swift feet on the grass, and Hector sped past her and headed off on Éomer's trail.

_Oh drat,_ thought Hermione, and pushed on as fast as her feet could carry her – which sadly wasn't as fast as Hector.

Then she turned the corner into view of the third obstacle, and her heart sank.

It was a mud swamp.

The mud was thick, ugly brown, and gave off a heavy stench. Various bits of plant matter floated idly on its surface, along with less appealing stuff. Hector and Éomer were already in the middle, valiantly trying to wade as fast as they would normally walk and failing miserably. The mud came up to both their waists. It was the sort of mud that squelched, clung and sucked legs down into sinkholes, to remain stuck for a long, long time.

Hermione clutched her baton, swallowed her revulsion, took a deep breath and plunged in.

For a moment she could not feel solid ground beneath her feet. Then her foot connected with the soft bottom. She opened her eyes. The mud was nearly up to her midriff. Holding the baton out of reach of the mud, Hermione fought the urge to throw up and began to wade determinedly through the mud, which seemed to fight her like a cement wall.

A splash and a squeak behind her told her that Gavroche had bravely plunged in after her. Glancing back, she saw that the poor kid was up to his neck in mud. Swallowing pity and concentrating on the task of getting the baton to Frodo, she went on wading.

"I feel sorry for them," pointed out Holly, from their vantage point atop a tree-crested hill.

"Better feel sorry for yourself," grunted Achilles. "The next one is probably worse. Maybe the – wait a minute, that's cheating!"

Chix Verbil had finally caught up. He had decided not to risk his complexion to the mud and had instead utilised his natural gift – his wings. Now he skimmed over the brown surface, past Hector, who had landed his leg in a sinkhole and was swearing loudly about it, past Éomer, who was almost at the end of the swamp, and up the hill.

"Oi!" exclaimed Éomer in indignation. He scrambled over the edge of the swamp back onto dry track and gave pursuit angrily.

"Lili!" called Chix, and shoved the baton at her. After much frantic gesturing, he managed to make it known to the bimbo that she was supposed to follow the track, and she ran off, looking flustered.

"Cheater," growled Achilles, advancing on the sprite.

"What?" Chix was being macho, since he observed Holly was watching. "You wanna pick a fight?"

"If I did," returned Achilles, "shouldn't you be running by now?"

Chix glanced at Achilles's sledgehammer fist, and suddenly realised that being macho might not be the idea of the century. "Erm, did I offend you or something, because if I did, I'm sure we can work something out…"

Holly's amused viewing of this confrontation was cut short when Éomer, covered in mud and looking a grim sight indeed, appeared. Holly snatched the baton from him and took off. She was reasonably sure she could beat Lili Frond. Most likely the girl would have stopped halfway to check her makeup.

She had been running for a minute or so, when the track terminated abruptly at the edge of one of the deepest gorges in the Jungle. Assailed by extreme vertigo, she fought to keep her balance, until she finally tumbled backwards onto the track, panting.

Lili was standing not too near the edge, gazing stupidly at the drop. Holly crept closer and looked again. The bottom seemed a long way down. There was the sound of rushing water at the bottom, though the river itself was barely visible.

Surely she had made some mistake somewhere? The gap was about the length of a human swimming pool! Yet the track ended here……and there were the five waiting figures on the other side. But how could she cross this gap?

Something drew her eyes upwards. And she saw the rope.

Of course! A rope! Tied to a tree and stretching across the chasm to the other side. Furthermore the other edge was much lower than this one, so the rope slanted downwards. It would be a simple matter of gravity.

Holly climbed the tree to the branch where the rope was tied. Passing the baton across so it made a sort of flying fox bar she could hang on to, she took a deep breath, prayed that her hands wouldn't lose their grip and leapt.

It felt like flying. She was rushing through the air at an incredible speed towards the other cliff. Then she looked down, and wished she hadn't.

The surroundings swayed, and she realised exactly how high up she was, and how dangerously easy it would be to lose her grip and fall all that way down. Not a charming idea.

She tore her eyes away from the descent just in time to see the cliff face rushing at her. Holly opened her mouth to yell, but at the last minute arms seized her and dragged her over the edge. She looked up into Eponine's worried face.

"_Mon Dieu_," she was saying. "Are you all right?"

Holly nodded weakly and passed her the baton. With some backward glances, Eponine left at her fastest pace.

Achilles reached the cliff's edge just as Holly took off. Without any hesitation he followed. The baton was too small to hold him, so he clenched it between his teeth and used a tree branch instead.

He was less fortunate then Holly, and smashed headlong into the cliff face. But he was rewarded by the sight of Briseis's sweet face peering anxiously down at him. "That must have hurt – do you need help getting up?"

Achilles shook his head bravely, despite the fact his chest was burning from where it had struck the jagged rock. Removing the baton from his mouth, he handed it to Briseis. "Take it."

Briseis took it quickly and retreated out of his line of sight. Achilles was staring after her longingly when he suddenly realised that in order to remove the baton he had had to release a hand. And in releasing the hand he had let go off the tree branch. So he was currently falling.

Perhaps by that time it was a little too late to do anything about it.

* * *

Grantaire came swinging over. Feuilly rushed over, just managing to grab Grantaire's sleeve. "Took your time, didn't you?"

"Gavroche took heesh time," slurred his comrade. "Not mah fault!"

"You're drunk again," observed Feuilly disgustedly, wondering firstly where the drink had come from and secondly how Grantaire had managed to swing across without falling off inebriated halfway. But since he probably wasn't going to get any answers from Grantaire himself, Feuilly settled on taking the baton and hurrying off after the two girls. "_Merci_!" he called over his shoulder.

Grantaire was no longer there to hear it. When Feuilly had released him he hadn't been holding on to anything else. So he had joined Achilles on the descent down into the Deep Nowhere.

Not only was it a bit late to do anything about it, but Grantaire would have been unable to do anything anyway, even given opposite circumstances. At least he didn't really notice, insofar.

* * *

Frodo could hear a distinct splash below, but was too preoccupied with his vertigo to look any further. _I'm going to smash into the cliff face. I'm going to smash. I'm going to smash……_

"I've got you!" exclaimed Sam, hoisting Frodo over the edge.

"Thanks," panted Frodo. "No, I'm fine. Don't worry, Sam. Go. Go!"

Sam was torn for a moment, but decided that Frodo wasn't in immediate danger and began running. It wasn't good going. Furthermore the track suddenly tilted steeply downhill at an alarming rate, so his balance was seriously compromised.

Soon he could hear running water. He finally reached level ground and panted on. Ahead he could see a river – maybe the same one at the bottom of the gorge. It was possible – after all, he had just come down a very, very steep hill, so perhaps he was on the same level as the gorge floor now.

To his surprise, Vinyáya was there. Most likely she had followed Path 6 after the sixth members of each group. She handed him a blindfold. "Put that on. You can't cross the bridge unless you're wearing one."

Sam looked at the aforementioned bridge. It zigzagged crookedly across the rushing river, each corner a sharp turn. "I can't cross that with a blindfold on! I'll…I'll fall in!"

Vinyáya wasn't smiling, but the twinkle in her eyes showed that she was certainly enjoying herself. "Too bad, then. Put it on."

Sam miserably tied on the blindfold and wobbled uncertainly onto the bridge. He edged forward uncertainly in the dark, feeling with his bare feet. He felt air under one foot and hastily yanked it back just before he lost his balance. "Help?" he queried fearfully.

"Left, Sam!" came a voice through the darkness – Merry's. Of course. He was waiting on the other bank for Sam to cross. "Turn left!"

Sam obediently turned left and stepped off the bridge.

"Oops!" exclaimed Merry apologetically. "Sorry! I meant, turn to _my_ left."

"Grrr!" was Sam's unintelligible and wet response as he clambered back onto the bridge. Vinyáya stifled a chuckle.

Eventually Merry finally navigated Sam across the bridge (although not without a fair share of 'accidents') and ran off with the baton. Sam joined Eponine, Briseis and Feuilly on a log to await the outcome.

Jack came a trifle late. This, he explained to Haldir in a hurry, was because Lili had taken forever to decide if crossing the gorge was worth scratching her palms for. It was not certain if Haldir understood more than half of it, most of the explanation being in pirate slang.

"Insupportable," decided Haldir sniffily at the end of it, and sprinted off.

Vinyáya left again by Path 6, leaving the five classmates on the log.

There was silence for some time. Then Eponine exclaimed: "Is that something floating down the river?"

Briseis got up. "I think so."

They went to the edge of the river to look.

"What be it?" ventured Jack?

Eponine shielded her eyes with her hand and scrutinized the object as it floated closer to the bridge. "Wait. It looks like…like a body!"

Briseis gave a sudden cry. "Oh gods! It's Achilles!"

Led by her, they rushed upon the bridge just as the unconscious Achilles bumped into it. With panicked hands they dragged him out of the water and onshore. Briseis gingerly shook him by the shoulders.

"Achilles! Achilles! Wake up!"

The others had gone back to the bridge to dredge Grantaire up, but Briseis could not tear her eyes away from Achilles's face.

Feuilly laid Grantaire's body out beside Achilles. "Do you think they're dead?" he asked in a hushed whisper.

Jack eyed them critically. "Dunno. Falling off cliffs ain't a reliable cause of death."

"What do we do?" whispered Briseis in panic, as she frantically swept the saturated strands of yellow hair off Achilles' soaked forehead.

Jack bent down beside Briseis, scrutinizing the frozen face of Achilles. "Let's see. You could try…mouth-to-mouth resuscitation?"

"What?"

Jack rolled his eyes. "Mouth to mouth breathing, savvy? No, I'm not doin' it, not me. You can do it, love, since you seem so…concerned."

Briseis snatched her hands away from Achilles immediately. "I beg your pardon?" she snapped, her royal breeding coming back into play.

Jack opened his mouth to reply saucily, but was interrupted by Achilles opening his eyes and suddenly coughing up water at a violent rate. Everyone jumped. Achilles ignored them and went on throwing everything he had swallowed in the river out onto the ground.

"Told ya," said Jack smugly.

"What?" exclaimed Achilles, jolting into sitting position abruptly. "Blech. What happened?" Then, with widening eyes, "_Briseis_!"

"Time you got up," Jack told him. "Briseis here was just about to give you mouth-to-mouth when you up and started coughin'."

Achilles glared at Jack, gave Briseis a stricken glance and flopped back on the ground, cursing inwardly. _Should have woken up a _lot _later_.

* * *

Andromache felt faintly acrophobic.

She was clinging to a rope halfway up a vertical cliff face, fingers in a deathgrip around both baton and hemp fibres. She was trying not to look down.

Haldir was not helping matters. He was just below her, complaining loudly about how slow she was and demanding that she climb faster.

Andromache forced herself to stare straight up after Courfeyrac's moving boots. Hand up, she thought. Hand over hand over hand. Don't look down.

But somehow she could not resist. She turned her head backwards irresistibly, helplessly…

……and was confronted by Haldir's hostile glance. "Would you _please _hurry up already?" snapped the elf.

Andromache jerked back to her senses and concentrated on climbing.

Van Helsing was waiting irritably at the top of the cliff. According to him, Joly and Elizabeth had already started off and they were quite behind.

"Sorry," muttered Andromache, mentally intending to begin training up, as Van Helsing raced off with the baton.

"About time," remarked Haldir dryly as he climbed around Andromache and passed the baton to Cosette. Merry came last, delivering the baton to Pippin.

Elizabeth was currently leading. Joly was gaining slightly, but Red's lead was fairly strong. So she forced herself on faster, until she came to the next obstacle.

_Wait a minute_, she thought. _The obstacles are supposed to be hard……but…_a SLIDE?!

No doubt. All she had to do for the next obstacle – was go down a slide.

_Must be a hitch somewhere_, reckoned Elizabeth grimly as she sat down and pushed off.

She shot off downwards at an alarming rate – it seemed to be a pretty steep slide. After several twists and turns, she came to a fork in the slide.

Right or left, that was the question. With the fork rushing up to her in a blur of movement, Elizabeth made a lightning decision and chose left.

She had barely any time to reflect upon her choice, when the slide turned an abrupt corner and stopped. Just stopped.

Elizabeth whizzed off the suddenly terminated slide into nothingness. She turned head-over-heels a couple of times and then landed splat on a seemingly hard ground.

Grub's face swam into view. "I'm really glad I wasn't Member 7," he pointed out morosely. That looks painful."

Elizabeth raised herself off the ground with difficulty and shoved the baton at him. "Run, you idiot," she gasped, before collapsing again. Grub took the hint and left.

There was a loud splashing behind. Joly had apparently chosen right and the slide had ended underwater. Artemis watched with extreme distaste as the revolutionaire spat water out and waded to shore, flinging the baton at him. The boy genius glared at the mud on the baton, took it gingerly and set off.

Carl looked up as Van Helsing came hurtling off the slide into the air. If he had entertained any ideas about him ending up like Elizabeth, however, they were proven wrong. Van Helsing turned a neat flip and came down on his feet.

"Cool!"

"Run, monk."

"It's friar, actually," pointed out Carl as a parting shot.

Some time later, Cosette rose to the surface spluttering in panic. Paris had to save her from near drowning.

Mulch was left twiddling his thumbs and wondering where Pippin could have gone off to.

That was answered only after much waiting. There was a loud yell of fear, and Pippin plummeted from the sky straight into the water.

"You didn't come out of either slide," pointed out Mulch as he helped a sodden Pippin onto the riverbank.

Pippin was shivering uncontrollably. "It was queer! There was this fork, and before I could decide whether to go left or right, I……sort of fell over the edge."

"You fell over the edge?"

"I fell over the edge."

Mulch decided it was time he stopped listening to Pippin's wild tales and started catching up.

Grub wasn't a good runner.

If Member 8 of Team Blue had been anyone else, he would have been overtaken pretty soon. But it so happened that Member 8 of Team Blue was Artemis Fowl. And Artemis was an even worse runner than Grub was.

Grub had that small thing to be thankful for before he came to a halt at the edge of a cliff, before the next obstacle. After that, all wish to be thankful for anything at all left him faster than a speedcar.

The next obstacle was a monkeybar. Suspended over a dizzying drop into yet another gorge.

"D'Arvit!" swore Grub, and began to weigh the dangers of crossing that and facing Trouble if he didn't.

The latter turned out to be more terrifying, and soon Grub, all chins wobbling, could be seen swinging fearfully and carefully over the gorge.

Carl was next there. He had less qualms than Grub, said a prayer and bravely started swinging.

Paris, who had overtaken Artemis after much hard sprinting, got there by the time Grub had finally (and god knows how) reached the end. Artemis and Mulch reached there at around the same time. Mulch seized the bar before Artemis did and swung out. Artemis froze.

Inconceivable. He couldn't be acrophobic. Not _now_.

But he just couldn't do it. Just couldn't.

"Artemis!" Boromir appeared at the edge of the other cliff. "What're you waiting for?"

Artemis still could not move.

Paris pushed past Boromir towards Legolas, who was tapping his foot in seeming boredom. "Artemis! _Artemis_!" The kid wasn't acrophobic, was he? Oh, golly gosh, very bad.

In desperation, Boromir did something for the team he never would have thought he would do. He crossed two obstacles.

Artemis still wasn't moving when Boromir finally crossed over to his side, snatched the baton from his limp hand with a glare that could have frizzled a tomato and prepared to cross the monkeybar towards the finish line. He didn't look back once.

* * *

The first eight members of Team Green were seated on various logs beyond the finishing line. Vinyáya had retrieved all the runners who had completed their obstacle and brought them to the finishing line so they could watch the final dash.

"On second thoughts, maybe letting that Malfoy take the last lap wasn't such a good idea," remarked Achilles into the marked silence.

"Too late for that," replied Andromache dryly. For once, she was not sitting between him and Briseis. Hector was doing that.

The four of them were seated on one long log. Aragorn and Arwen were on the opposite one, wrapped in their own little romantic world. Van Helsing was leaning against a tree trunk and wrapped in his own little unromantic world. Carl was lying on the grass, scrabbling for earthworms. He said he needed them for a 'latest experiment'. Van Helsing said he really didn't want to know.

On the other side of the clearing, Éomer, in the middle of expounding upon the topic of mud swamps to anyone who would listen (namely the finally conscious but hangover-suffering Grantaire, since he couldn't protest), was interrupted by Éowyn's sudden distraction and cry: "Look! They're coming!"

Everyone dropped what they were doing and ran as close to the finishing line as they dared. Trouble Kelp had just appeared with the Red baton into full view of the next obstacle, over yet another conveniently placed gorge.

It was a thin fishing net that stretched across the gap. With holes in it. Not just the normal net holes. Really big, viciously-and-sadistically-scissor-slashed holes.

Grub swallowed and clasped his sweating hands nervously.

"Well," stated Holly brightly, "at least this time the odds are in his favour. He's, well, _light_ enough."

"He's small enough to fall straight through a hole," pointed out Eponine.

"You do have to look on the dark side, don't you?"

In the distance, Trouble tentatively stepped onto the net. One foot, then another. He tried to run forward, but the net wobbled precariously, and he swayed dangerously. Far as he was, they could see the tense expression on his face.

Trouble seemed to gather up his courage and continue, taking large strides and rocking wildly on the fine threads. His lead must have been pretty good, because he was halfway over when Malfoy appeared.

Malfoy had the disadvantage of being taller and heavier than a fairy. When he tried running, the net trembled violently and he was nearly thrown off. He could only wait for it to stabilise before continuing – and making it shake again.

"Probably wouldn't hold _your_ weight," Andromache told Achilles prissily.

A sudden flash of bright hair amidst the jungle undergrowth elicited a happy cheer from Team Gold. "Legolas is coming!"

A few more seconds and Legolas appeared round the corner, in his full swift glory. His hair flashed in the sun, and his legs were a blur, for he had the speed of the Firstborn. And for those who don't know, that's really, _really_ fast.

"He's going like greased lightning," said Will breathlessly. He was providing commentary. "He's crossing the distance between the trees and the net at the speed of – oh, he's at the net! His weight barely seems to affect the net – I wonder why, useful skill – he's passing Malfoy! Really, that Red runner doesn't stand a chance. He's catching up, he's catching up……oh, drat."

A loud moan rose from the team: Legolas, in his haste, had forgotten about the potholes in the net. He had fallen through one.

"I know he's going to die an awful death!" screamed Helen. Paris looked half-elated, half-concerned.

"Wait," observed Haldir suddenly. "He's hanging on by one arm!"

It was the turn of the other teams to look disappointed – in particular the Red Team, which bore no great love for the Elf.

"Come on, mate," muttered Jack. "Pull yerself up. You can do it."

Boromir, racing like mad, appeared round the corner. He crossed the distance in a few bounds and leapt upon the net just as Legolas had got the other arm up. The net shook furiously and Legolas lost his grip again. Gold glared daggers at Blue, which was looking particularly proud of Boromir.

Trouble was wading carefully to the end of the net.

Legolas, with a huge effort, yanked himself up out of the hole and sprawled on the net, shaking it again and nearly dislodging Trouble, who just managed to keep his balance. The Elf rose wobbling to his feet, turned to the end of the net and began to run.

Trouble stumbled off the edge of the net onto solid ground. He seemed to feel Legolas ominously catching up, for he did not stop even for a single breath.

Legolas was coming to the end of the net, although he was slower in order to avoid more holes.

Trouble neared the finishing line.

Legolas leapt off the net and entered the desperate race.

Trouble's breath came in short gasps. He lengthened his stride. The finishing line was just a bit further…

Legolas was decreasing the distance between them by the millisecond.

Everyone held their breath as Trouble and Legolas came level for a single moment. Time, proverbially, seemed to slow. An unfortunate happening, but quite necessary in order to emphasise the suspense.

Then the air exploded with screaming cheers.

It was an unexpected victory. Everyone had expected the other to win. But the Red Team, who had held on so staunchly through nine trying obstacles, had proven their worth. Trouble had won.

The Red Team was celebrating wildly. Trouble had been slapped on the back so many times that he was very near collapsing. Éomer was grinning like mad. Éowyn and Elizabeth were holding hands and whirling round in crazy circles. Eponine hugged Marius and laughed into his shoulder.

The Gold Team surrounded Legolas uncertainly, slightly unsure how to react. Paris alone was secretly and vindictively pleased. Cosette was nearly in tears.

Vinyáya's prize was a cache of chocolate bars. Chocolate bars tended to be very popular in A&A&A, and were hence often used as prizes for PE.

The class, now dismissed, made their way back to the school building. Still exclaiming joyfully, the Red Team, arms slung over shoulders (as far as height differences allowed), led the way through the double doors. The other losing teams followed dejectedly. Still, all of them had to agree on one thing.

It had been educational.

**End of Chapter**

_Next chapter coming…_**Bacteriology and Bashings**


	17. Bacteriology and Bashing

**A&A&A Boarding School**

Authoresses' Note: Sorry 'bout the long absence. Rukuelle is complaining that Lydia has too many fics going on. So we'd appreciate it if you wouldn't mind that update periods stretch a bit longer.

We watched Ocean's Twelve yesterday, and are now infatuated with the whole idea.

So…callouts, as we have learnt they are called.

**Asha Ice: **Angry man song! Malfoy isn't vampiric. That's a reserved honour. Oh, and you just mightn't like this chapter very much, dear. Do restrain yourself with the needles.

Silver Sniper 

**Tsuki Yume: **We do recommend New Zealand greatly. Except don't climb Mt. Doom unless you really appreciate being blown off the top by a 90-kmph wind into a metre-deep snowbed. And Mordor was supposed to hot.

**Elenhin: **Hmm…that's Bassanio's line, Act 1 Scene 1, lines 115 – 118. There you go.

**Lee: **We're a bit overly mean to Helen – to Cosette too, we realise. It's just that damsels-in-distress really don't click with us. We'll try not to antagonize them too much.

**Mefi: **We were making Legolas so hardworking because we feel sorry for him. Because of what happens to him in this chapter. Meep.

Joou Himeko Dah 

**Elebriwien**

**Blu-white-red: **You're a nice senior-of-Lydia's-friend. We hope you enjoy the Phantom of the Opera: A&A&A style – and the Masquerade! Wheep!

**Hotdogfish: **Don't think they got much of a chance to really look at the school. Poor things.

**Cerse Liminara: **Yeah, it was a bit rushed. We were panicking 'cos it was getting so long. Sorry.

**Not yet 13: **Carl is from Van Helsing: the Movie. No more Legolas/Paris fighting for the moment. Our dear elf, let us just say, has been temporarily – put out of action.

Capricornus152 

**Kryah: **We don't support Artemis/Hermione, unfortunately. Our opinion is that Artemis belongs with nobody – probably would refuse to put up with anybody with a lesser intellect. Which is about everyone else. Hermione _is _intelligent, but Artemis would never abmit that.

A warning: Legolas fans may not like this. Too bad.

**17. Bacteriology and Bashing**

The Company of Heroines must have been indefatigible, because immediately after Physical Ed., they took a quick coffee break and were back outside again with their favourite hobby together – climbing trees. As if the Obstacle Course hadn't given them enough climbing to do already.

The A&A&A field was a very large one. It sprawled between the surrounding blocks, a more or less quadilateral shape of neat green grass (kept trimmed by Commander Root's countless detentioners), dotted with trees of all shapes and sizes. Of late, a new mallorn tree had appeared behind the firing range. The first-year class was quite aware of where that had come from.

The Company didn't climb the mallorn, out of respect, even though it looked an excellent tree for climbing. Instead, they moved off deep into the field, where there was a grove of small elms. Those weren't so bad either.

Anna was the best climber among them. Already she was lost in the leafy crown above them – they could only follow her voice. Elizabeth, who only climbed for the view, settled in a high-enough nook which swayed as she rocked it, watching the people and blocks in the distance. Holly, despite her size, could hold her own fairly well when it came to climbing, and was scrambling ahead of Eponine onto one of the higher branches.

And so they were climbing, when there came an intruding voice into their presence.

"So you took it."

Holly's automatic reaction to that voice was her worst scowl. Then after careful consideration, she wiped that off and replaced it with her best grin. With this decided expression on her face, she clambered down and dropped to her feet in front of Legolas.

"So I did," she answered coolly.

The expression Legolas was wearing was definitely not his best grin. Beneath his blank countenance, he was struggling to control his furious frustration. Holly saw that shrewdly and grinned even more.

"Whatcha grinning at, fairy girl?" snapped Legolas.

Holly ignored the question. "You should have known better," she said in a reproachful manner. "Did you really think I would humiliate myself so you wouldn't burn my precious homework?"

Legolas glared. "You should have known better," he snarled, "than to offend me."

Holly's fists instantly curled into hard balls at his tone. Legolas saw that, and dropped into a fighting stance. "Last time you took me by surprise."

"Last time you underestimated me," added Holly nonchalantly.

"So I did. I won't do that again."

"I'm sure you won't."

Both Legolas and Holly turned with some surprise to Éowyn, who had just dropped out of the tree. The shieldmaiden picked herself up and strolled casually over to them. Anna and Elizabeth landed and followed her. "Oh, is someone looking for a fight now?"

To give Legolas credit, he was brave enough to stand his ground despite the warning frequencies shivering in the air. "It will be dishonourable," he told Holly carefully as he eyed the other girls, "if you fight me with their help."

"_Mon oeuil_," retorted Eponine as she slid onto Anna's right. "Bah for dishonour."

Holly looked Legolas in the eye. "Last time you called me dishonourable. I think I might as well live up to that title."

The Company of Heroines formed a solid barrier confronting Legolas. Each girl had her fists clenched and her eyes blazing.

"You should have known better," said Holly softly, "than to offend _us_."

The field was very large. No one heard the screams.

* * *

"Sit down, class," said Gandalf. "For Biology today, we will be doing……" He paused, and his eyebrows arched ferociously as he scowled at Legolas's empty seat. "Where is Mr. Greenleaf?"

Helen blinked. "I don't know," she answered truthfully.

Eponine clutched her mouth to stifle a giggle. Cosette cast an uneasy glance at her.

"Perhaps he forgot we had class here and didn't come up," offered Paris.

Gandalf scowled further. "He had better hope he isn't late, for his own sake." He strode back to the front of the class. "Anyway, back to the lesson. For Biology today, we will be doing a study of common bacteria – observing them through microscope slides. Put on your rubber gloves, everybody. Mr. Sparrow, stop drinking the alcoholic sanitiser. Just because ethanol smells like rum, doesn't mean it leaves your stomach lining alone."

Jack put down the ethanol bottle. "Ain't good quality anyway."

"Now, what you do with the alcohol is to _spray it on the table _to sterilise it. I don't want to catch anyone drinking it." He glared at the errant pirate. "Have you all got your labcoats on?"

"Yeah," muttered Lili, prodding the white layered lining of her coat. "These make me look fat."

Gandalf chose to ignore her, as everyone else did. "One person from each bench, come up front and collect a bacteria tray."

The bacteria trays were round Petri dishes filled with sickly yellow jelly. The jelly gave off an exceedingly unpleasant stench. Amidst the jelly were several even more sickly looking patches of what could only be bacteria.

"Yuck," muttered Pippin, holding the bacteria tray away from him.

"Please ignore," went on Gandalf, who was drawing random squiggles on the board, "the confluent growths – the ones that look like this." He pointed at one of the irregular shapes. "Concentrate on the colonies – the ones that look like nice little circles. Each person choose a favourite colony and take notes on it."

"What _do_ you say about those dotty things?" muttered Holly as Gandalf turned his back to rearrange some of the stuff on the table. "They all look round, yellow, bumpy – all the same."

"Actually," began Artemis, "bacteria colonies can be anything but similar. If you would compare the one there and the one there, I might point out that……ow."

"Shut up, Mud Boy."

After that, Gandalf taught them how to prepare bacteria-on-slides.

"Now, after you have scraped the bacteria onto the slide, you use the tongs to hold it…" he used his staff to light the bunser burner, "... in the flame. That would bind the bacteria to the plastic."

Cosette gulped as the flames licked merrily at the plastic with the bacteria smears on it. "But…but…" she gasped, "they are…were…alive! They could have been – " she sought desperately for an example, " – taking tea!"

Eponine rolled her eyes to illustrate exactly what she thought of that statement. Gandalf frowned and removed the slide from the bunsen burner. Marius escorted the trembling Cosette back to their seat.

Then there followed the usual long and messy gauntlet of scientific experimentation.

"Harry, get the Violet Crystal ready," ordered Hermione. She turned to Ron, who was roasting the bacteria in the bunsen burner flame with a little too much enthusiasm. "Take them out, Ron."

"Not yet," protested Ron, "they're not even browned yet."

"You can't see them. Boys," she added in exasperation, snatching the tongs from him and dunking the poor bacteria into the violet crystal bath.

"Sorry," muttered Malfoy as he handed Haldir a tissue to clean off the splash of brown iodine.

Haldir only glared and dabbed at the stain on his arm. "It's iodine," he pointed out morosely. "Iodine is probably corrosive. It's probably already eating into my arm. I might die."

"Really?" asked Lili breathlessly.

Haldir shot her another glare. "No. I was kidding."

Malfoy shook his head crossly and returned to adding iodine to the slide.

Work goes on and on.

Half a saffranin-red-and-ethanol-soaked hour later, most of the class had finished their slides of tormented bacteria.

"D'you want to see?" offered Eponine maliciously, eyeing Cosette, who was edging away from the microscope. Cosette had participated as minimally as possible in the slaughter of the bacteria. She said it was Cruelty to Animals.

To that Marius had pointed out: "Bacteria don't count as animals."

Which had hurt Cosette's feelings, to Eponine's delight.

Now Marius said: "Cosette, they don't look half-bad. Besides, Gandalf said we've got to look."

Cosette was naturally averse to anything Eponine suggested, but since this was Marius's contribution, she nodded nervously and got up to look.

Carefully, she brushed a strand of chestnut hair away from her sightline and put one eye to the lens tunnel. She nearly fainted at the sight.

An enormous patch of monstrous-looking bacteria, dyed a violent purplish-blue with tints of bloody red. It was a nightmarish picture, the bacteria contorted into ghastly, flattened forms. They looked as if they had expired in terrible agony.

Cosette sat down hard on a laboratory stool, panting slightly with one hand delicately at her mouth.

Score, thought Eponine merrily.

When it came to dismissal time, Gandalf had a hard time parting Pippin from the bacteria. It seemd he had grown 'attached' to them. He had even given them names.

"No!" wailed Pippin. "Don't take Bandobras!"

Gandalf rolled his eyes. "They are just bacteria. What's so special about them, anyway? You'll see a lot more in the next Biology class."

"But……we like these. They're ours. And they're cute."

"_CUTE_!"

"Yep. We want to keep them as _pets_."

Gandalf blanched. "Idiot. Did you know that bacteria can – mutate? They'd become a biohazard and kill people – and they wouldn't be cute then."

"No," agreed Pippin.

Gandalf sighed with relief and held out his hand for the bacteria. But Pippin wasn't finished yet.

"They wouldn't be cute. They'd be cuter."

Gandalf groaned, and snatched the dish away with one bony hand. He flung the bacteria into the incinerator.

"NO!" howled Pippin as the instant flames conflagrated his precious pets. "Bandobras! Chub-Chub!"

"You are dismissed," pointed out Gandalf curtly, pushing Pippin rather ungently out of the door. Supported by Merry, who was muttering words of comfort, Pippin left the class nearly in tears.

In varied degrees of silence, the class trooped to the Aesthetics Block for their next lesson. The Short Alliance, in respect to the recently-passed on bacteria, were silent.

As she rounded the corner, Holly gave a sharp intake of breath and ducked back against the wall. "They're here!" she mouthed to the Company of Heroines.

"Who?" asked Anna curiously and stuck her head around the corner. She was confronted by the sight of Javert, exceedingly red in the face, and Root, who was even redder, marching down the corridor. As she watched, Root stopped Artemis Fowl and shoved some sheets of paper at him. "Have you seen any of these girls?"

Anna saw with great shock that the paper was similar to a wanted poster, with Holly's passport photo blown up on it. The next one had her own photo.

"Holly?" mused Artemis. "I'm not sure. Perhaps they're still in the Science classroom – you could go check."

"Thank you," boomed Javert curtly. Anna did not wait to hear anymore; she hastily flattened herself against the wall as they approached.

"_Merde_!" hissed Eponine softly under her breath. "Coppers!"

Éowyn, ever resourceful, took note of the surroundings and flung open the door of a deserted classroom. "Get in," she said urgently.

They scrambled in. Éowyn shut the door quietly and threw herself clear of the glass window as the two discipline masters strode into view. Despite the fact that they were on the other side of the wall, and the Company was flat out on the floor, they could hear the two strident voices quite clearly.

"……really, it's never been so bad," Root was saying.

"There was Bruce Banner."

"I'm talking about girls. This is the second time Short has beaten someone up."

Javert snorted. "I knew those five were bound to be trouble. I saw it coming, Commander; I knew it all along."

They could hear the unspoken complaint in Root's mind: If you had seen it coming, you should have prevented it, d'Arvit.

Root, however, did not offend his colleague. "Girls, what's more. I'd swear, the girls are getting worse than the boys."

"Oh, _oui_. Remember Lara Croft."

"Ah. A troublemaker, that one. And last year…"

"…the Merry Murderess gang. Terrible morbid, that name."

"Yeah. Velma Kelly's forever breaking rules – and that clique of hers just follow blindly."

"_Insupportable_. Did you know they smoke?"

"So? That's a lesser evil."

Obviously Root saw nothing wrong with smoking, but Javert apparently had enormous objections to the activity.

"It's a sin, Commander, I tell you, it's a sin."

"Beating up guys is worse."

"Oh, _bien sur_. Of course. Wait till we catch them."

Underneath a desk, Holly felt a tingle of dread run down her spine.

"They can't elude us forever. And when we find them…"

The teachers' voices faded as they turned a corner. Slowly, Holly crept out of her hiding place. Her eyes met the others', set in faces pale as death.

"I'm sorry I had to bring you into all this," muttered Holly.

Éowyn drew herself into a sitting position. "You didn't bring us. We came."

"We'll face it, don't worry," said Elizabeth comfortingly. "What's a little detention?"

Holly nodded eventually. The Company of Heroines flashed each other smiles. And then, like thieves, they sneaked out the classroom and flew down the corridor to Design and Technology class like the very devil was on their heels.

On second thought, you _could_ put it that way.

**End of Chapter**

_Next chapter coming…_**Scrollsaws and Sharp Acrylic**


	18. Scrollsaws and Sharp Acrylic

**A A A Boarding School**

Authoresses' Note: We have decided it is pointless to apologise. It will happen again, anyway.

**Reicheru: **Javert is from Les Misérables. Lydia has forgotten the number of times she has tried to tell you that.

**Asha Ice: **Killed Legolas? Killed Legolas? He wasn't actually killed, but you have given us a lovely idea…….

**Lee: **We've seen PoTo: The Movie – and Gerard Butler cannot sing. He cannot hit the high notes in Music of the Night, and he makes up for it by yelling roughly. He isn't even ugly enough. But Emmy Rossum was a good Christine, though. The Hulk gets more cameos later.

**G.CPE and LXR: **So you were related! Lydia suspected that, when you enrolled in OFUT within seconds of each other. The David Wenham thing is rather obvious, but we're not doing anything about it – mainly because Carl and Faramir wouldn't get along very interestingly anyway. Have you seen David Wenham as Audrey in Moulin Rouge?

**BlueDove: **You don't know what you're saying when you say it wouldn't hurt. Snow does nothing whatsoever to cushion your fall, just makes large Lydia-shaped holes where the body punched through. And it _hurts_.

**Akwyn: **Congratulations on your new teenage status. Velma Kelly is from the absolutely gorgeous movie of Chicago. And it is PG-13.

**Sapphire Dragon: **Not that we agree with your opinion on hated villains. There was Dracula. The Brides. And Anck-su-namun. And Deathstrike. Actually Lydia has a fetish for evil women villains (particularly with long black hair). But sometimes it is very satisfying to stick a very hateful villain (eg. Percy from Thunder in the Sky) and leave him floating in a river. Very satisfying indeed.

**Elenhin: **The name Chub-chub is from a friend who names everything that – from peppercorns to art knife blades. We borrowed it, since it is rather adorable. It was originally the name for her racing frog, and then she expanded its usage.

**Blu-white-red: **Why do you say that? Are you referring 'food-in-the-mail' to the Moro Bar?

**Kasey Rider: **Actually we couldn't have more than three other revolutionaries (not counting the four we definitely wanted: Enjolras, Marius, Gavroche and Grantaire) so we had to pick the first three that fitted and dump the rest. We are now regretting putting Joly in. We feel we'd rather have Jehan instead, but it's too late now.

We have both been newly converted to Amelia P. Emerson fanism – and Lydia is ranting night and day about Sethos this, Sethos that. Rukuelle, to give her credit, has been listening very patiently to all of this. But Sethos really rocks. He smashes people in the face with nectarines. That's so cool. Anybody want to sign up to be nectarine-smashing-experimental-guinea-pigs?

Sethos rocks. A pity they don't have Amelia P. Emerson as a fandom.

They should make it into a movie. And Johnny Depp should play Sethos. SETHOS ROCKS!

Shut up, dear.

**18. Scrollsaws and Sharp Acrylic**

There are a myriad of dangerous, deadly places in the world – places where _anything_ can happen, and where _anything_ is usually something akin to mass destruction. Nuclear weapon plants are an example of these places. So are the eyes of cyclones, the insides of most active and erupting volcanoes, cesium-and-mad-scientists-filled chemistry labs – and the AAA Design and Technology Workshop.

The first thing the class noticed when they entered it, was that there were a _lot_ of sharp things lying around.

The second thing was that there was a loud, snazzing, slicing sound coming from the curtained-off back partition that sounded very much like messy decapitation.

Then the Lady Galadriel emerged from the back partition, and immediately put flight to this latter observation. If Galadriel had wanted to decapitate anybody, it would have been clean, quick, not at all noisy and definitely not at all messy.

Galadriel was, in contrast to the dust-pyramids on the various workshop tables and machines, immaculately white. In the glare of the worklights overhead, her golden tresses shone faintly like a river of light. Her hands were pure and spotless, and all in all she looked like she had never touched a thing in the workshop.

"How do you like it, dears?" she asked kindly.

No one answered. Most people were still struck dumb. The rest were too wary to answer Galadriel's questions lightly.

"It's very nice, thank you," answered Arwen non-committedly.

"Glad you think so," smiled Galadriel. "I'm sure you will all love DT and your time here."

The less lion-hearted among them eyed the sharp objects scattered around and felt quite negatively affected.

"I know they look dangerous," agreed Galadriel, "but really, DT is quite safe, so long you keep out of the back partition. It is solely _my_ area, and there are things in there that might make you lose an arm, if you're careful, or a head, if you're not. In the rest of the workshop, at most you'll just lose a finger or two."

_A finger or two? Just?_ Several of them were getting bad feelings about this.

"Now," went on Galadriel, "since this is your first day here, I'll allow you to play with the machines and get used to working them. In DT here we mostly use acrylic plastic – sometimes wood – and we make those structures and sculptures using these lovely tools." She cast her shapely hand in the direction of the elegant and artistic creations adorning the shelves in the corner. Statues, spray-painted scenes, clocks, swords, milk cartons……certainly very artistic.

"Make anything you like today," she continued. "Use the scrap plastics in the boxes there, or the wooden blocks. And just to avoid losing those fingers, I suggest you listen and obey."

"One." She pointed at some machines that resembled large wheels coated with some rough substance. "Do not stick your fingers down into the sandpapering machines. Someone did that once. She lost all her fingernails on the left hand – sucked off, you know. Spent three weeks in hospital. She still refuses to expose her hand in public."

There was a general intake of horrified breath. Cosette and Grub looked nauseous. Even Achilles blinked.

"Two." She pointed at the long row of drilling towers, the tips of the drills glinting ominously in the bright light. "Do not touch the drill tips, and when you're drilling anything, _please_ hold on to it. The last time someone didn't, the drill spun it off the platform and it landed in his eye. He was making a lance. Sharp acrylic is very painful."

Everyone shuddered at the mental image.

"Three." She pointed at the enormous orange contraption dominating one wall and emanating heat waves. "Do not stick your head in the oven. It is two hundred and seventy-three degrees in there currently – enough to melt a whole block of acrylic. I believe that is self-explanatory."

Of course. Enough to melt acrylic, let alone brain tissue.

"Four." She pointed at another set of strange wheels – but these came in pairs and were covered in what resembled the material one finds on carpeted flooring. They looked particularly innocent – or so the students thought. "The buffer wheels are possibly one of the most dangerous things here. The carpeting covers hot wax strips – normally for polishing plastic. The wheels spin very fast, too. So hold on tight to your plastics and keep a good distance away. I always say this," she muttered under her breath, "yet they are always falling over it onto the wax strips. Young people."

"Five." She pointed at the machines with long serrated chain saws passing through their platforms. She pressed a button on one of them, and the machine immediately jerked into life. With the same jittering, slicing sound they had heard from the back partition, the saw blade turned into a frenzy of up-and-down motion, frantically sawing at mid-air, a blur of jagged teeth. "This is a scrollsaw. You push the plastic onto the saw so that it cuts straight through. You do not push your fingers onto it. That is clear? Very well, you may start. Have fun, my dears."

It really was rather fun – once they could summon up the courage to go near the dreadful things, of course. DT can take hold of one, if one is concentrating hard enough. The machines have a way of drawing you in, till nothing in the world exists but the machine and the blade and the piece of plastic you are navigating through the complicated process of scrollsawing. You are under the impression you are creating the world's greatest masterpiece, and you forget everything else. That is mostly why so many accidents happen.

There was a loud wail as Grub accidentally lost hold of his plastic, which he was buffing on the wax strips. The wheel spun the piece seven feet into the air. Whirling like a Tojo blade, it hurtled upwards, and then dropped down suddenly, sharp point first, and impaled Grub's shoe. Grub yelled.

Trouble was there in a breath, yanking the perpetrator out of his brother's shoe. "It just stuck your shoecap, that's all," he said, the relief apparent in his shaking voice. "Went nowhere near your toes. Stop blubbering, will you?"

Tears streamed down Grub's cheeks. Galadriel, who was omnipresent and had observed all, patted him kindly on the back. "There now, it's over," she said in a very motherly tone. "If you're feeling sick or anything, just sit down for a moment, it'll be all right."

Trouble accompanied him to the bench the Lady produced for Grub. His eyes met Galadriel's for a moment. She smiled.

_I know. I had brothers too._

Trouble reckoned that the situation at that time was probably different. Galadriel would certainly have had no trouble with her brothers. She was, after all, Galadriel.

It might have been this first accident that frazzled their teacher a bit – if it could be called frazzling. She was, after all, Galadriel. As it was, she suddenly announced: "Oh, would any of you like to learn how to spray paint your plastics?"

Cosette, who liked painting, said politely that she would like to, and Marius decided to go with her, so naturally Eponine had to follow, scowling. Artemis, who did not like the workshop (because of the dust and noise and the general effect it had on his cultured senses) also volunteered. Hermione showed interest, so Harry and Ron joined her. For some reason, so did Malfoy.

"Excellent, dears." Galadriel beamed at all of them. "Follow me around to the back, will you?"

She led them out of the workshop and round the back, where the spray painting wall was, and began to instruct them in the complicated procedure of spray paint.

This was a terrible mistake. Perhaps one of the most terrible Galadriel had made for a very long time. No one was sure why she had made it (she was, after all, Galadriel) but it had been made, and the results were there and very dire.

She had left the rest of them alone, in the DT workshop, alone in one of the most dangerous places in the world.

And then things started happening.

* * *

The first thing that happened was Jack Sparrow's fault – although it had been Will who had suggested it. In itself it wasn't really very serious, but it was certainly a good start. 

"I need a file," complained Will, who had been trying his luck and his plastic strip on the sandpapering machine, which was doing a pretty rough job of both. "A handheld file. The sandpaper's destroying the edge."

"Hmm," pointed out Jack, who was attacking his plastic with a chisel and a ferociously indomitable expression on his face. Acrylic dust flew from the frenzied blows with the air of an imminent sandstorm.

Will went over to the shelf where he had seen some files. The larger sizes, he figured, would be more appropriate, and hence he headed for those. He was about to withdraw a file from the rack, when something landed on his hand.

It was a wasp. An enormous, black, dangly-legged wasp with a formidable buzz and a large sting.

Will yelled, shook it off frantically and ran out of stinging range as the whole plethora of wasps zoomed out of their various holes amid the file racks and flew into offensive position. With them barricading admission to the racks with their loud buzzing, Will had no choice but to retreat.

"Jack," pointed out Will, "there are wasps. I need a little help."

The original plan was that Jack would distract the wasps (distraction was something he excelled at) while Will retrieved his file. Unfortunately, the wasp family extended to such numbers that half of them could harass Jack while the other half fended Will off.

"How the blazes did they get in there?" panted Jack, as he whacked a wasp away with the chisel. On seeing their fallen comrade, the others renewed the attack vigorously. "Can we give it up? I don't wanta be stung, mate."

The two of them retreated. The wasps once more formed a buzzing barrier.

"I need a file," indicated Will plaintively.

Jack mulled it over. "Then this calls for drastic measures," he declared, and pulled out his wand.

Will's eyes opened wide. He had seen at close quarters what Jack could do with a wand. He was leaping forward for the outstretched wand hand, when Jack pointed it at the wasps and cried: "_Immobilius!_"

The charm, to give him credit, worked marvellously. The wasps all froze instantly. So did Will, caught in mid-leap. The chatter of students ceased. So did the whirring of the machines. The DT workshop turned into a replica of Madame Tussaud's.

Jack turned around slowly. He took in the tableau of unmoving classmates. Mulch had been in the act of taking his melted acrylic out of the oven, which was now losing heat piteously. The French Revolution had their mouths open, and their hands in the air waving their new batch of plastic Republic flags. Even the scrollsaws had stopped mid-cut.

"That's interesting," thought Jack aloud.

Since the rest of the class was in this interesting state, he made the best use of his time. He found a dustpan and a brush and swept all of the wasps out of the air, dumping them in one large black mass into the sandpaper vacuum balloon. That should take care of them. Then he picked a large file out and arranged Will's fingers around it. This took some time, since Will kept dropping it on his foot. When all was in order, he took out his wand again.

"Move," he snapped. Then, on second thoughts: "_Please_."

Everyone jerked back into motion. The workshop filled with noise and dust once more. Mulch began juggling the hot acrylic from hand to hand, howling with scalded agony.

Will looked from the file in his hand to Jack, who was back at his table chiselling whistling a drinking tune nonchalantly. "What just happened? Where did the wasps go? And why does my foot hurt so much?"

"I dealt with 'em," replied Jack enigmatically. He chose to ignore the last question. Most likely Will wouldn't have appreciated the answer anyway.

* * *

"_Grapes of Wrath_," said Artemis. 

"John Steinbeck," answered Hermione promptly. "_War and Peace_."

"Tolstoy. _Kim_?"

"Rudyard Kipling."

Harry wasn't sure who had started it. It could have been Artemis, who had gotten tired of spray painting (especially after he got paint on his fingers accidentally) although it could equally well have been Hermione. At any rate, now the two of them were engaged in a deadly sparring battle of wits: Author Trivia.

"_Appointment with Death_," suggested Hermione.

"Agatha Christie. _Hound of the Baskervilles_?"

"Arthur Conan Doyle. _Call of the Wild_?"

"Jack London. _Titus Andronicus_?"

"Pathetically easy. Shakespeare."

It had been going on for a very long time. Both seemed to be extremely good at this guessing game – only to be expected from such well-read individuals. They had even ventured into other languages: Artemis had asked about _Hong Lou Meng _and Hermione _La Princesse de Cleves_. Harry and Ron knew better than to interrupt; Hermione would punish them by throwing them a novel which they definitely would not be able to answer and they would suffer embarrassment. So they watched in barely concealed irritation.

"_Wuthering Heights_?"

"Emily Brontë. _Jane Eyre_?"

"Charlotte Brontë. _Agnes Grey_?"

"Anne Brontë. _Shirley_?"

"Charlotte. Can we please get off the topic of the Brontë Sisters, mademoiselle?"

"You started it."

"You encouraged it."

"But _you_ started it. _King Solomon's Mines_?"

"Thinking to catch me unawares? H. Rider Haggard."

Harry sighed. They were at it again. Deadly competitors, those two were.

* * *

Anna reached out to pick up a transparent black piece of acrylic. Pretty, she thought. There were a whole lot of transparent pieces underneath that. She put the first one down and began to gather the rest into her hands. 

She stopped. There were two other hands holding on to the pile. They weren't letting go.

"Surely you don't intend to take all of them for yourself," remarked Van Helsing caustically.

Anna glared at him and gave the pile a hard tug. Van Helsing's fingers refused to give. "That's very selfish of you," he went on.

"Shut up and give over," muttered Anna between clenched teeth.

"I don't think so."

Holly was observing them from her position perched beside the drills. She tapped Elizabeth on the shoulder and pointed. "They're at it again."

"So I see," muttered Elizabeth.

Not so far away, Merry and Pippin were inspecting a new discovery. "It's a gun, Pip!" exclaimed Merry in delight.

"What sort of gun?"

"Would I know? There's a tube sticking out of the end, though."

"Oooh! Must be loaded."

"We could test it."

"Yeah. We could."

Back to our odd couple.

Anna and Van Helsing were now standing. Both had refused to give in.

"If you don't let go," cautioned Van Helsing, "I shall be forced to result to certain measures I would normally never take on a girl."

"Oh, I'm honoured," spat Anna. "What is it with you and never taking anything out on girls? Chauvinist, are you?"

"Well, actually…"

"Yes, then. Oh, I _should_ have known. No wonder you're always so _condescending _to me."

"Condescending? I treat you differently from other females. You're the first girl I have ever really wanted and tried to strangle."

"Oh, really? You seem to have had a lot of practice on strangling girls."

"Well, you were asking for it."

"Can we return to the goddamn point? Let go of the plastic."

"Flat no."

"Ack!"

Pippin waved the gun about vaguely. "I think you pull this lever here, and whatever-it-is-loaded-with comes out."

"Don't point it at me, moron," corrected Merry hastily. "Point it _away_ from us. Yes, like that. Now, pull the trigger……"

"Let go _now_," said Anna. Her voice had gone slow and dangerous. "Or else."

"I could say the same to you."

"I think they need a mediator of sorts," suggested Éowyn. "Let's go over. Anna does things impulsively."

Anna and Van Helsing engaged in a rather childish tugging match.

At the same time, Pippin fired the glue gun.

Hot glue shot out at a terrifying velocity, a silver snake spurting through the dusty air. It compacted into a large viscous blob and splatted unceremoniously on the pile of fought-over acrylic and the two pairs of hands clinging onto them.

Anna and Van Helsing both screamed as the hot glue engulfed their hands. The Company of Heroines stopped short at the shocking sight: the two of them, their hands scalding in a ball of burning glue, Merry and Pippin standing nearby, looking guilty.

Éowyn rather lost it, then. She picked Pippin up and shook him violently. "_What did you DO!_"

" I don't know!" squeaked the unfortunate hobbit. "We didn't know…and it's too late, anyway…"

It was. Hot glue is a messy but effective way of sticking things together. It cools quite fast, but leaves the bonds as strong as ever.

Anna slowly opened her eyes as the burning pain died away. Her hands seemed still to be intact – although they hurt like hell. However, they seemed to be covered with a thick, translucent, blobbish film.

Anna blinked, to make sure it wasn't a pain-induced hallucination. She tried to release the pile of plastic, so she could inspect her poor hands better. Somehow she couldn't seem to. Then it hit her.

She had been glued to the pile of plastic, which was now a large blob of adhesive. So was Van Helsing. In effect, they had been glued together.

"_D'Arvit_!" swore Holly, and ran to get Galadriel.

* * *

"_The Enchanted Castle_?" 

"E. Nesbit. _The Count of Monte Cristo_?"

"Alexander Dumas. That was simple. _The Jewel of the Seven Stars_?"

"Hm. Bram Stoker."

Artemis was impressed, though he did not show it. Not many people knew that Bram Stoker had written anything else beside Dracula, let alone an Egyptian horror fiction. He quickly parried her question, and added a cunning thrust.

"H. G. Wells. _The Phantom of the Opera_?"

Hermione hesitated for a moment, and Artemis felt a wicked surge of triumph. "Erm…Andrew Lloyd Webber? You're not supposed to use musicals, you know…"

"I was referring to the original novel," returned Artemis smugly, "by Gaston Leroux. Andrew Lloyd Webber only wrote the musical version." His expression could be described by one word – if he had had that word in his un-colloquial vocabulary. That word was _Gotcha_.

Her face fell for a moment, defeated. But Hermione Granger was not a girl to back down easily. It was only a couple of seconds before she came up with a return blow – and this one surreptitiously below the belt.

"_Cinderella_."

Artemis opened his mouth to answer, expecting the brain to emit the reply mechanically – and paused. It was a very simple question. Everyone knew Cinderella. Surely he knew the author too?

He had never bothered to remember.

Hermione smirked. _Gotcha_.

Harry supposed he should be feeling happy for Hermione's victory over Fowl. Somehow he was viewing it with a sinking feeling. Artemis would take revenge for this. He suspected that deeply.

"So Little Miss Smartypants thinks she's won again."

He knew that voice. He hated it. The revenge of Artemis was going to take back seat for trouble-of-the-moment.

Hermione had become the epitome of glaring indignity. Eyes blazing, she faced Malfoy off. "Just because you don't have the _brains_ to do the same."

"Yeah," agreed Ron. "You're just jealous, Mr. _Slimeball_."

Malfoy's face contracted. Without another word he raised his spray can, aimed and fired.

Hermione and Artemis ducked. Glancing around shielding arms, Harry saw Ron, splattered head-to-toe with lime green paint.

Ron was staring in disbelief at his new coating. He happened to be holding an orange sienna paint can. Ron let out a war cry and joined battle.

"Green and orange make a very tasteless combination," observed Artemis as both adversaries sprayed wildly at each other.

"Oh shut up," muttered Harry, grabbed vermillion and chrome yellow and went to Ron's aid.

Hermione covered her face with her hands. "Not again!" She grabbed Harry and Ron by their collars and attempted to drag them away, only to be covered in the worst combination of paint colours for her effort.

Someone cleared his – _her_ – throat behind them.

All four froze.

"Were you fighting?" asked the Lady Galadriel with deceptive calm.

* * *

Holly came back with Eponine, both in great distress. Eponine was wringing her hands. Holly was pounding her fist into the other hand. 

"Galadriel isn't there," stated Holly bluntly.

"She left," explained Eponine. "Harry and Ron…er…sprayed Malfoy with paint. Galadriel took the three of them – and Hermione, she got caught in the crossfire – to find some turpentine. And maybe give them detention."

Anna's normal reaction would have been to run distracted fingers through her hair. However, her fingers weren't available. "What are we going to do?"

"We can't sit here stuck to each other for the rest of the period," groaned Van Helsing.

"Do you think I like being stuck to you?"

"Of course not. I like it even less."

"Please," intervened Carl hastily, "now is _not_ the time to argue. You'll only make the sticking-together thing more unbearable. Surely there must be a way."

Holly was running her fingers distractedly through her short auburn hair – a freedom of limb for which Anna greatly envied her. "This workshop is filled with machines for cutting plastic with. We can try them."

"Scrollsaw?" suggested Pippin, who was trying his best to make amends.

They accordingly tried. The plastic heap was too big for the slender scrollsaw.

"How about the oven?" thought Carl aloud. "It melts acrylic. Perhaps if you put your hands in, the glue and the plastic might melt, and then you could……."

"_No_!" exclaimed Anna and Van Helsing simultaneously. Both had had enough of burnt hands for today.

The next five minutes saw the Company of Heroines, Merry, Pippin and Carl hacking in turn at the plastic pile with files, chisels, scissors and any metal tool in the vicinity. By now, an interested crowd had gathered. Various people yelled suggestions, which ranged from the dubious to the downright outrageous.

Eventually the hackers gave it up. They regarded the pile of dented, chipped but unyielding plastic, and the many slashes on both pairs of hands where the tool in question had missed and cut skin instead. "It's no use," sighed Éowyn dejectedly.

Holly wiped perspiration from her brow, her forehead creasing in thought. Then something seemed to strike her. Her eyes filled with a new glint – a rather, the others noted in alarm – devilish glint.

"Would you like to see what's in the back partition?" she said carefully.

Van Helsing began to object, but Anna, always the more impulsive, jumped off the table and followed her friend. Van Helsing was promptly yanked off with her.

Holly brushed aside the curtain cautiously – Galadriel would not have warned so without reason. The room, however, seemed fairly harmless. The machines did not have long protruding blades with wickedly jagged teeth, and looked rather unprepossessing.

"Get down, Holly," advised Anna from behind her.

Holly immediately dropped into a crouch. She risked a glance upwards. There was a huge iron wheel with spikes adorning its sides hanging from the ceiling – and half a second ago, right above her head.

They entered one by one, all taking care to avoid the large metal wheel. Careful not to touch anything, they began to search for some large saw that would cut the glued plastic apart.

Carl accidentally brushed against a lever. With a loud roar, a rounded shining blade leapt out of a previously bare table and sped spinning across the surface. It dropped out of sight at the end.

"Carl, you shouldn't…" began Van Helsing, and then bit it off. "Hey. Wait a minute."

Half a minute later, Carl had arranged Anna on one side of the table, Van Helsing on the other, arms outstretched, and the ball of plastic in the middle – right across the cutting line.

"Are you sure about this?" protested Anna. "That thing could cut off my arm. Through the bone."

"You scared?" said Van Helsing softly. There was a mocking twinkle in his eye.

Anna's face instantly lost all traces of apprehension. "Carl, just get on with it."

Carl nodded nervously. "Okay," he said, "someone should hold both of them steady – if the blade knocks them off their feet, it might…erm, remember what Anna said about arm bones. So…Elizabeth, is it? Could you hold Anna? Éowyn, please help anchor Van Helsing."

Elizabeth took hold of Anna's shoulders in a firm grip. Éowyn's mouth set in a thin line (not unlike Professor McGonagall's) but she crossed to the other side and held Van Helsing in the same tight grip.

Carl had his finger on the lever. "Ready," he squeaked, "one, two, three…"

Anna looked Van Helsing in the eye. For a moment his face mirrored the fear in her heart, and then it was replaced by the customary impassiveness. Then she saw the clean, shining blade come wheeling out of the table, and she shut her eyes……

The impact knocked her so hard that even with Elizabeth clinging on, she staggered and nearly fell sideways. She expected pain, blood, screaming……

Anna opened her eyes. She was lying with her cheek against the table. Her hands, with their half of glued plastic, had been flung to one side. The blade that had severed her from Van Helsing was nowhere in sight.

Anna got to her feet, trying to brush a curl out of her eyes with one exposed finger. "Thanks," she said, though she was not sure to who – to Carl, whose finger was still on the lever – to Elizabeth, who was behind her, face white and drawn – to the other white and drawn faces assembled around her –

To Van Helsing?

Van Helsing was on his feet too, casually affixing his hat back where it belonged. Anna turned halfway to him. "Sorry," she muttered.

"What?" Van Helsing was rather unsure of this new development. When someone who had been hating him for the past three days was suddenly contrite, it seriously alarmed him.

"Sorry," repeated Anna. "Sorry that we had to go through this whole thing. Sorry I had to waste so much time being stuck to you. In future I shall never touch anything that you touch."

She glared at him. "Ah," replied Van Helsing non-committedly. He was too relieved that normal enmity was back in place to reply sarcastically.

"What are you doing in here?"

Everyone spun around guiltily. Carl snatched his hand away from the lever.

The Lady Galadriel was framed in the doorway. Her features were impassioned as far as impassioned would go for them: nostrils flaring, eyes with living green fire, hair blowing about her. It could have been the wind from the ceiling fans. It could have been inner psychic rage.

Then she suddenly broke into a brilliant smile. Her face relaxed. To them, it felt even worse.

Galadriel stepped aside, revealing two forms that had earlier been concealed by her height and billowing garments. "Commander Root – Inspector Javert? These are the girls you wanted, no?"

_D'Arvit_, thought Holly. _D'Arvit, D'Arvit, D'ARVIT!_

"Yes," said Javert with a shark-like grin. "Oh yes."

"We'll take them from here, Your Ladyship," said Root. There was an unpleasant glint in his eye. "I believe your lesson with them is over?"

"Indeed, Commander." Galadriel's innocently lovely smile put the cherry on the cake.

"Follow me," Javert addressed the Company of Heroines, who were sweating profuesly. "You are under arrest for beating up a fellow classmate, eluding capture and entering sacred domain. Your punishment awaits you."

Root broke into a yellow-toothed grin. He lit a cigar and clamped it between his teeth. The smoke wreathed his red countenance like that of the Devil himself.

"I'm sure you will enjoy it," said the Commander, and blew another cloud of smoke.

**End of Chapter**

_Next chapter coming…_**Châtiment et Conjugaison**


	19. Châtiments et Conjugaison

**A&A&A Boarding School**

Authoresses' Note: We have observed something that went very wrong.

Fanfiction does not allow the Shift-7, '&'.

Hence our titles have been appearing as AAA Boarding School.

Please note that it's actually supposed to be A-and-A-and-A Boarding School, and D-and-T, and M-and-M, and so on and so forth. Yes.

**Cerse Liminara: **Nitpicker. Well, we sort of forgot that. Although with the right amount of random jabbing with the plastic, he _could_ have pushed the hat back into place.

**Tsuki Yume: **It probably has nothing to do with the snow, but with the fall. That's why.

**Lee: **Oh, what sort of disgraced wizard? Gandalf? Or someone from HP? Do elaborate.

**Manveri Mirkiel: **Root and Javert probably like the challenge (as they would say of French). It wouldn't be as fun if they just asked the teachers. The thrill of the hunt, see.

**Jousting Elf with a Lightsabre: **_Cheese puff?_

**Reicheru: **Javert is an over-righteous French police inspector who is after Valjean and the revolutionaires – mostly Valjean. He hates Valjean. We've forgotten the number of times we've said this.

**Katatonia: **So glad to have you back! It was the Grimms Brothers. And we're very proud of that particular spark of attraction. For romance-phobic people like us, a spark is a huge achievement.

**Akwyn: **Thanks for the description. Don't worry, braces ain't so bad. You'll get used to them. Except you'll never be able to eat chewing gum after that…

**Lydia's Angel: **Pay attention in class? Weeelll……

**Asha Ice: **Galadriel is NOTHING like a mouse! Whatever possessed you to say that? Too much attention to Orlando Bloom, perhaps. Hmph.

**L-X-R: **Yay! (slap hands with your sister) Fellow anti-Legolassers! Unite!

**Disneyluver: **Glad to see you back too! And thanks so much for your persistent reviewing! (which will get Legolas a little reprieve, but not very much) Since you asked about Elvish novels, he was probably reading something like _Vanya Firessë _or the like. (We leave you to wonder about translation) For more-about-Javert, see Reicheru's review answer. Well, you are probably the first one to call the Company evil for beating up your – cough – darling. You will probably find their detentions fitting, we think.

In the event that anyone is wondering (actually a lot of you have asked), _Châtiment _means Punishment in French and _Conjugaison_…well, conjugation. Which is one of the worst things about learning French. And you thought that English was bad.

Lydia wants to do some self-advertisement for her new fic, **River of the Dead**, which somewhat tries to explain why she is so obsessed over Sethos, and to spread the general Amelia Peabody fanism. Reviews are appreciated (even if you don't know what the _hell_ is going on)

**19. Châtiments et Conjugaison**

Pain comes in many different forms.

An hour ago, Anna would have vehemently sworn that having your fingers coated in burning glue was the worst possible pain she had ever experienced. Now she would have vehemently disagreed.

The worst possible pain was to have had your fingers coated in burning glue, had the glue acidised off them, and then be forced to use your tortured fingers to write lines.

And on top of that, to be made to miss lunch when you had been starving the whole morning.

She was drawn roughly from her reverie, as Inspector Javert's baton smacked sharply onto the desk before her, making her pencil case jump. "How many?" growled Javert.

"Six-hundred and thirty-five," muttered Anna, lowering her eyes.

"You're not going fast enough," snapped Javert critically. "It's been an hour already. Write faster!"

Anna winced as pain shot through the joints of her scalded, skinned and aching fingers, and forced herself to keep up the nightmare pace that Javert had set for them. _I, Anna Valerious, will not beat up my fellow classmates, elude known arrest or venture into restricted areas ever, EVER again._

She eyed her fingers with trepidation. They had gone all red and shiny, and they certainly hurt like hell. She hoped they would stay on, at least for the rest of the school day.

The lunch bell rang.

_That was fast_, thought Anna wistfully. _End of lunch. French class now. God, I HATE Javert._

She only finished her lines – at nightmare pace – ten minutes into French class. Javert collected all their lines, ran through them to see that nothing was skipped, and fixed them with a severe glare.

"I hope you will do exactly as you have written. And remember, this is only the first part of your punishment. You still have another session with Commander Root after school today, in the field. Scram."

"I have no intention of writing anything for the rest of the day," declared Eponine as they ran hell-for-leather down the corridors towards French class. "I only hope Celeborn doesn't give us _more_ detention for being late. I couldn't face more lines."

Celeborn was sure to be ballistic. Indeed, when the Company of Heroines skidded to a stop in front of the French classroom, their Language teacher fixed them with a freezing glare.

"Ah. So it's the delinquents."

"Sorry," muttered Éowyn as she and Holly skittered past him and slid into their seats.

"You will not do it again," declared Celeborn. "I cannot stand tardiness for my classes. Now, back to what I was saying before you – interrupted. You may be wondering why I am teaching French instead of M. Valjean or Inspector Javert, who are native French speakers. This is because M. Valjean is too busy marking Math diagnostic tests and the good Inspector dealing out lines. And I speak French pretty well myself, if I may say so."

Several people at the back of class took the liberty of rolling their eyes.

"Very good," said Celeborn, and immediately proceeded to speak in rapid and indecipherable French.

"_D'abord, nous allons reviser les tenses français. Ensuite, est-ce que vous voulez écrire un petit redaction? Pour tes devoirs, bien sur. Alors…_"

Éowyn's first impression was that Celeborn had gone mad and was babbling on in lunatic language. Then she looked around and saw that Artemis and Holly seemed to be understanding him perfectly. Her reaction to that was to assume that _she _was the one going mad.

Then she looked to her left and saw that Harry and Ron were both gaping at Celeborn in bewilderment (Hermione, of course, was listening with the utmost comprehension). To her right: Anna and Van Helsing were staring at their teacher in equal puzzlement. Carl seemed to understand too– but no matter. At least she wasn't alone in insanity.

"What's going on?" Aragorn asked in confusion.

"I think he's talking French," Arwen whispered back, alabaster brow creased quizzically. "Perhaps he said something about essays – but I really don't know what he's talking about!"

Aragorn raised his eyebrows. If Celeborn's own granddaughter didn't understand, the situation must be drastic.

Achilles put up his hand.

"_Quoi_?" inquired Celeborn, not very pleased at the interruption.

"What the heck are you talking about?" asked Achilles bluntly.

Celeborn froze. He stared at Achilles. Then he turned his stare and let it wash over the rest of the class.

"How many of you speak good French?" he asked.

Artemis put up his hand. So did Hermione. The French Revolution, Gavroche, Eponine and Cosette raised theirs. The fairies' hands, with the exception of Lili's, rose. So did Elizabeth's and Carl's. Everybody else just stared back at him.

Celeborn passed a hand over his eyes. "You mean the rest of you don't understand French?"

The not-so-bilingual part of the class shook their heads mutely.

"Oh dear," muttered Celeborn in a voice of doom.

He remained silent for quite a few seconds. The class watched with either slight concern or detached amusement. Evidently M. Celeborn had just had to reconfigure his teaching strategems.

After some time, Celeborn said in a depressed tone: " I suppose now we have to start from the very beginning."

So they proceeded to go through the tedious committing to memory of the various verb conjugations.

"_Je suis, tu es, il est, elle est, nous sommes, vous êtes, ils sont, elles sont…_"

Eventually the students who already knew quite a bit of French began to tire of watching their not-so-fortunate classmates brutally dismember the conjugations of the tenses and slaughter French pronunciation. Artemis put up his hand.

"_Mille pardons, monsieur,_ but some of us know all of this already like the back of our hands. Could we please do something more…stimulating?"

Celeborn was looking, by now, a trifle harassed. "Er…stimulating? Er, by all means. Er…write an essay?"

"About?"

Celeborn's nerves were seriously rattled. "Anything! Whatever you want! Just don't…interrupt the lesson any more."

"_D'accord_," murmured Artemis. He fetched foolscap and pen and proceeded to cover the paper with neatly printed French. The French Revolution followed his example – although their content resembled more revolution propaganda than normal essay writing. Gavroche proceeded to draw his famous stick-figure comics.

"Yes, yes," went on Celeborn, who seemed a bit more encouraged. "Those who can speak French, write me an essay on whatever topic you choose. If you raised your hand just now, I expect one essay from each of you by the end of the lesson, at least two-pages long. Check your grammar. Now, back to _conjugaison_…"

"D'Arvit," muttered Holly, who had been hoping to slack. Her fingers still hurt.

"_J'ai, tu as, il a, elle a, nous avons, vous avez, ils ont, elles ont…_"

"Whatcha writing about?" whispered Éowyn, leaning over to look at Holly's work.

"Carrots."

"_What_?"

"It was the first thing that came to mind," murmured Holly ruefully. "Really, carrots ain't bad. Hmmm…_jus de carotte_…_nourriture_"

"I don't get French," Éowyn complained.

"It has always struck me as an overtly flowery language," interjected Artemis. "Sometimes overtly unnecessary. Fancy having to decide if everything is masculine or feminine. It is not a wonder, really, that the English consider the French quite silly. Consider the illogical requirement for six different conjugations for one verb – and only in the present tense, at that."

"Why do you like French, then?" asked Éowyn, with an undertone of sarcasm.

Artemis shrugged. "The challenge."

"Why do you like French, Hermione?" Ron was asking over the other side. "It's horrible."

"No, it's not!"

"Well," went on Ron, warming to his topic, "I can't see why anyone would want to go to such bloody trouble just to speak in past tense!"

"It's an educated language," said Hermione huffily. "Very elegant and refined. People of high linguistic calibre speak it. Not like you understand."

"I don't," concluded Ron. "Showoffs speak it, that's why."

"_Tais-toi_," retorted Hermione.

Ron didn't understand that, so he didn't reply. Which was obeying, really.

* * *

By the end of class, French pronunciation had been laid prostrate, and was now bleeding severely from little knife-cuts. Celeborn was looking very haggard.

"Put your essays on my desk," he said. "Class dismissed." After collecting the essays, he staggered weakly out of the door and stumbled in the direction of the staffrooms.

"What's next?" asked Éowyn as Holly began packing pens into her pencil case and trying to massage her cricked fingers at the same time.

"Free period."

"_Free _period? They're so nice?"

"No, not really. It's because we have Astronomy at nine p.m. later."

"Ah. That's good, anyway."

"No, it's not."

Éowyn frowned. "And why not?"

Holly gave her a reproachful look. "You've forgotten? Detention with _Root_."

"Oh."

They joined the other three detentioners. Anna was telling Eponine about the last time she had had detention with Root.

"Stop it, Anna," complained Elizabeth. "You're making it worse."

"Am I? Don't worry, I'm sure it'll be nothing like the last time. Root seems to get more creative as the days go by."

"Anna!"

Root was waiting for them in the field. He had five large baskets and was gazing pointedly at a large patch of grass that had been fenced off. As the Company arrived, he took the cigar out of his mouth and began handing out baskets.

"You see that there patch? Lately we have been having an infestation of starwort."

"What's starwort?" asked Anna.

Root led them over to the patch. It was the normal long green grass that covered the rest of the field, but it was dotted with small, pretty-looking plants that had star-shaped flowers of a delicate light green and feathery grey leaves. "Those. They've been troubling the runners for quite some time. The Lady was going to make up something for them, but I told her to save some for you lot." His grin was very wide and very alarming. "Pick that patch clean in an hour."

Baskets in hand, the Company of Heroines advanced on the innocent blossoms with skepticism. The starwort plants trembled in the breeze and looked, if possible, more frail and delicate than ever. Surely such pretty little things couldn't cause anyone any harm.

But then, Root had mentioned that he had saved them specifically for this batch of detentioners. There _must_ be something about those flowers.

Perhaps they were poisonous.

_If that's so_, mused Holly, _I shan't touch the flowers. Or the leaves. Just the stems. Yes, there can't be anything wrong with those thin little stems…_

Her fingers closed on the soft stalk of the nearest starwort.

"D'ARVIT!"

White-hot pain shot up her arm as needles of agony jabbed themselves without mercy through and through her fingers, like vengeful knives. Holly had very rarely screamed in her life. This was one of those times for screaming.

Gradually, the throbbing pain lessened – although it was still too strong to go away. Holly opened her eyes. The plucked plant lay at her feet, its snapped stem seemingly more fragile than ever. The other four were watching her with open-mouthed horror. Root was watching her with a mocking grin, the cigar back between his teeth.

It was the mocking grin that made Holly bend down, grit her teeth, pick up the starwort and drop it as fast as she could into the basket. Again the pain stabbed up her fingers, like fire, hot liquid fire. Holly's mouth opened involuntarily; she had to fight the scream like a demon to force it down. She would not give the commander the pleasure of seeing her scream again.

Resolutely, she moved forward. The rest of the Company followed, approaching the starwort with apprehension. Elizabeth bent down till she was nearly eye-to-flower with a starwort. She could see nothing of danger on it. She took a deep breath and nipped it out of the ground.

Elizabeth's shriek cut through the air like a sonic blast. Half the field away, the walls of the gym shuddered. Indoors, several students in the Dining Hall dropped their plates of food. The starwort rippled as if a storm had blown over them.

Elizabeth hurled the ripped starwort into the basket and held the throbbing hand up for inspection. Thousands on thousands of the tiniest white barbs had driven themselves into the flesh of her thumb and index finger.

One by one, each of the Company discovered the excruciating pain of the starwort needles as they lodged themselves without mercy into vulnerable flesh, till the flesh of each finger was a veritable forest of minuscule spines. They bore it, however. As each new onslaught of needles pierced their skin, and each new wave of starwort poison sent fire up their veins, they bit back their screams and flung the hateful plants into their baskets. The pain was maddening. Nothing before this, not even Javert's line-writing classes, could have prepared them for this venomous agony. Their hands swelled with the poison and the pain, and the throbbing beat into their heads until their very minds screamed with the torment. Anna's hands were bleeding, and Elizabeth had bitten her lip so many times it was oozing blood too.

Root was impressed. He let their fortitude try itself for an hour, before he decided they had been punished enough and released them.

When she was asked to recount the terrible experience of her detention, Holly could not remember how they got to the hall where the Phantom of the Opera rehearsals were being held. All she could remember, in that seething morass of pain that was her only memory of that period, was Galadriel's soothing voice and the cool touch of the salve she was applying on their tortured hands, and the dizzying little jerks that shot through her arm as Galadriel pulled each and every little barb out. Somewhere in that memory, she could dimly recall Galadriel saying that they could only purge the starwort poison if all the needles had been removed. Her mind was not working very well – it was all in a whirl and in French, for some queer reason – something to do with carrots, perhaps?

_Châtiment…_starwort…_carotte_…starwort…_châtiment…_starwort…_carotte_…starwort…

Pain comes in many different forms, indeed.

**End of Chapter**

_Next chapter coming… _**Psychotherapy and Prejudice**


	20. Psychotherapy and Prima Donna

**A&A&A Boarding School**

Authoresses' Note: We must apologise for discrepancies. Last chapter we said that the next would be called Psychotherapy and Prejudice. We have changed Prejudice to Prima Donna, since it is so much more fitting.

**Asha Ice: **Kirsch is no great appreciator of elven beauty. Shorter than usual? Lydia bids you speak of your own chapter lengths first!

**Katatonia: **You're at boarding school! That must be fascinating. How is it? Awful?

**Lee: **The starwort idea came from 'Daughter of the Forest' by Juliet Marillier, in which that same plant figures prominently and painfully. And our French is not-so-good: Lydia's French is at best rudimentary, and Rukuelle's constantly non-existent.

**Manveri Mirkiel: **We are torturing Holly, let us remind you, because she beat up Legolas. We are very fair people. We punish people for beating other people up, even the ones we hate. Salad. Right.

**Tsuki Yume: **Oh, _Venice_! Lydia's always wanted to go to Venice. Lucky thing.

**Bananatree: **They have some sort of school dance – that's the Masquerade on Saturday, see.

**Sapphire Dragon: **Did you read Evil from the Past by Lydia? Dracula and Artemis met up in there. They didn't really get along. Glad it appears as &. It's supposed to.

**Rei: **Jean Valjean is Cosette's dad. He's an ex-convict-turned-wealthy-mayor. Long story.

**Akwyn: **Oh, you poor thing! Don't worry, you'll get over the braces soon. They've been at school for three days in twenty chapters. Strange how long things get, isn't it?

**Mizamour: **Nice of you to review so much. What's with the 'A!'s?

Not much more to say, if we're going to get this up before we go to bed. Goodnight. Chtchlolkanova out.

**20. Psychotherapy and Prima Donna**

Galadriel had temporarily abandoned the Masquerade dancing – since four of her female dancers had hands out of commision. So she had turned her attention back to Music of the Night and was arguing with Artemis over the transposition. To keep them occupied, she had told the couples to sit on the floor in their pairs and discuss their steps. Which, of course, no one was doing. Most of them were employing the policy so common in stressful school life nowadays: when one is given a chance to stone – just stone.

Eponine was certainly stoning. She and Grantaire had both fallen asleep sitting up. Enjolras was regaling Cosette with revolution propaganda – Cosette was too polite to tell him to shut up. Malfoy and Hermione were pretending that the other did not exist in this dimension. Insofar they were both succeeding admirably.

Sam was making polite conversation. The old gaffer had always said polite conversation was good.

"So…your name's Holly."

"Yeah." Holly went on examining her blistered fingers. _Hello, you know that already. _

"That's nice," said Sam, nodding. "That's a flower, you know."

"It's evergreen," said Holly without looking up.

"Mm. It's a right pretty plant, you know. My old gaffer always brings some in for Yuletide. Bright red berries, you know, give the place a lot of colour."

"I'm sure."

Sam gave it up. Holly was a pretty and prickly plant.

Faramir was humming again – that habit which Boromir found so irritating. Éowyn sat facing him, one knee up with her hands balanced on it, so she could watch the swelling.

After some time she mused aloud: "Where's that from?"

Faramir stopped humming long enough to give her a curious stare. "Where's what?"

"What you were humming," explained Éowyn patiently.

"I make it up."

"Ah." Éowyn went back to watching her wounds, and Faramir back to humming.

After some more time she said: "Is it in E minor?"

"A minor," said Faramir thoughtfully. "I think. I'm not very good at music."

"Neither am I," admitted Éowyn. "Do you hum to be irritating?"

Faramir considered this hesitatingly. Eventually he replied, "Well, yes."

"I see," murmured Éowyn. "You like being irritating?"

"No," said Faramir.

"Then it must be a psychological problem," said Éowyn knowingly.

"Perhaps," mused Faramir. "I'm not very good at psychology either."

"Neither am I," acknowledged Éowyn, "but I'm practising. Psychotherapy, you know. I have no idea why I took it up. I think fencers do it, sort of, before they go en garde."

"That's nice," remarked Faramir. "Why don't you show me?"

"Very well." Éowyn seated herself cross-legged and stared intently at Faramir. "Let's look into your problem of being irritating, shall we? You are irritating on purpose, but you don't like being irritating. What do you intend to accomplish by being irritating?"

"I don't know," answered Faramir truthfully.

"Subconsciously you do," argued Éowyn, "but that's no help. Who do you irritate?"

"Everyone. But most of all Boromir, I think. And…Dad."

There was a following silence, penetrated only by the chords from Artemis's organ and the occasional colourful curse from the Phantom.

"Your father is the Steward of Gondor, isn't he?" asked Éowyn gently. "Boromir told me."

Faramir nodded. "I annoy him most of all, I think. After Boromir I must seem like a pretty slapstick specimen."

"I think I know," exclaimed Éowyn.

"What?"

Éowyn was excited. This round of psychotherapy had actually produced results. "You're _attention-seeking_."

"No," said Faramir. "I'm not. Young children are attention-seeking. I'm not a young child."

"But that's the only rational explanation," protested Éowyn. "You irritated people because on a sub-conscious level you want them to pay attention to you. You want your father and brother to pay attention to you. And it's not restricted to young children – although perhaps that's why you act so childish sometimes."

Faramir said nothing. It was an excellent argument.

"Listen," said Éowyn in a different tone, "I've an idea. Try and behave sensibly for once."

Faramir ran a hand through his hair and blinked at her.

"If you start behaving sensibly," explained Éowyn, "it'll make them take a second look at you. You will get all the attention you want, and it will be positive. Do you get me?"

"Sort of."

"Good," concluded Éowyn cheerfully. "Now, we'll start work on your renovation."

"Reformation," corrected Faramir automatically.

"You're getting there."

* * *

Elizabeth, once she was well enough to walk about on stage without her hands throbbing like hell, rejoined the Cast. She was seated between Piangi and Raoul, and they were watching Jack sing 'Music of the Night'.

Aragorn, she noticed, was wearing a notably sour look on his face. He tended to wear this look every time Arwen and Jack had a scene together. Elizabeth observed and wondered how he would deal with the last scene. The one where Christine kissed the Phantom.

"_Close your eyes,_

_start a journey through a strange new world_

_Leave all thoughts of the world you knew before_

_Close your eyes,_

_And let music set you…"_

"Bet Andúril that he can't hit the note," muttered Aragorn.

"_FREE!_" shrieked Jack off-key. Galadriel's eyes snapped towards him and she began remonstrating.

"Thought not," remarked Aragorn with a shadow of a smug grin on his face.

Galadriel gave a theatrical sigh and sent Jack off into the wings to practise his pitching – which echoed around the stage in the most ghastly manner for the rest of the rehearsal – and called up the cast required for Prima Donna.

Merry and Pippin trotted up onto stage in manager form. They were waving their scripts, which were also doubling as over-large Opera Ghost notes.

"…_Dear Firmin, just a brief reminder_," hummed Merry. "_M__y salary has not been paid. Send it care of the ghost, by return of post……No-one likes a debtor, so it's better if my orders are obeyed!_"

"Who would have the gall to send this?" read Pippin off the paper. "Someone with a…a…puerile brain?"

He leaned over to Merry and hissed in a stage whisper: "What's puerile?"

"Of course you wouldn't know," sniffed Merry loftily. "It means…erm…unwashed."

"It does not," corrected Galadriel, who had overheard – or over-mind-read. "It means childish. Master Meriadoc, putting down your friend like that is _very_ bad for his self-esteem."

Merry looked wounded. Pippin gleefully stuck out his tongue at his fellow manager.

"That," said Merry in injured and dignified tones, "was puerile."

Aragorn put an end to the argument by rushing on stage in his top hat, waving a script. "Where is she"

"You mean Carlotta?" asked Pippin.

"I mean Miss Daae... Where is she?"

"Well, how should we know?" protested Merry. "And your cue is wrong."

Aragorn muttered a short expletive and stomped offstage.

"Aren't they adorable?" murmured Galadriel to Celeborn, as they viewed the proceedings from the stage apron.

Celeborn made a non-commital noise.

"You are always so tactiturn," sighed Galadriel. "Go get the couples dancing again – they've had quite enough time to discuss their steps already." She rose majestically and swept statuesquely across the stage towards her students. "We need more speed for this scene! Confusion! It's a scene of confusion!"

Celeborn jumped off the apron despondently and went over to the seated couples. It was not a job he looked forward to.

He got most of them onto their feet without as much trouble as he expected. Éowyn and Faramir were so deep in discussion over some obscure psychological point that they didn't even object to dancing. He poked Eponine and Grantaire, received a sharp exclamation from the former and a slurred vulgarity from the latter, ignored both and turned to the two pairs he had been saving for last.

"Practice time," said Celeborn into the ears of Malfoy and Hermione.

Hermione glanced up at him and shot a half-disgusted, half-terrified look at her assumed partner. Malfoy went on gazing stonily at the wall.

"I'll get my lady," warned Celeborn.

That did elicit some alarm from Malfoy. Hermione had obviously not told him the truth about last rehearsal, but apparently Ron had.

Celeborn had got them to stand facing each other with the length of a 30 cm ruler between them, and left them mutely stepping in forced coordination. With a sigh, he turned to Anna and Van Helsing.

Anna and Van Helsing had surprisingly not started World War III in the absence of teacherly surveillance. Because of Anna's preoccupation with her hands, they had been reduced to mere glowering.

"Stand up," commanded Celeborn in the most forbidding terms he could muster.

Anna and Van Helsing glanced up at him briefly, and went back to glowering.

"_Stand up_," repeated Celeborn in tones of despair.

To his enormous astonishment, Van Helsing leapt to his feet. "Come on, Anna," he cried with unexpected exuberance, and grabbing his partner's hand, yanked her up forcefully.

Anna choked back an agonized shriek as Van Helsing's hard fingers closed mercilessly about her sore prickled skin. She certainly saw his purpose well enough. Gritting her teeth, she resisted wincing as she gripped Van Helsing's shoulder like an iron vice and dug all her long fingernails in as deeply as she could.

It was Van Helsing's turn to cringe. That was going to leave a mark.

Celeborn, exceedingly relieved at this surprising change of mindset, left to oversee the rest of the Patch Crew, who were working on their chorus. When he departed, Anna and Van Helsing were dancing with aggressive violence and attempting to stamp on each other's toes. Obviously they were wishing for hob-nailed boots.

* * *

Confusion was reigning supreme on stage. Galadriel was pleased with this. It looked very realistic. It was also probably realistic, because most of the cast had no idea where they were supposed to be standing.

"This hour shall see your darkest fears," prophesied Andromache darkly.

"I must see her!" exclaimed Aragorn and Briseis simultaneously.

"_Abbandonata!_" shrieked Elizabeth in her best Italian falsetto. "_Deseredata! Sventurata!_"

"You're overdoing it," remarked Andromache. "The angel knows, the angel hears…"

"Where did she go?" questioned Aragorn with feeling.

"_Abbandonata!_" sang Elizabeth in a toned down version of her original accent. "_Disgraziata_!"

"Signora, sing for us! Don't be a martyr!"

"What new surprises lie in store?"

"Our star!"

"_Non vo'cantar_!"

Everyone paused to catch their breath. Galadriel and Arwen, who had come to watch alongside her, applauded with appreciation. "Very good," commented Galadriel. "Very confused. Continue, dears."

Artemis struck a tentative chord on the organ, winced delicately at the discordance it produced, and struck another one. Merry and Pippin sidestepped at Galadriel's frantic gestures until they were standing in Elizabeth's taller shadow.

"Your public needs you," pleaded Merry.

"_We_ need you," corrected Pippin, and dimpled appealingly.

"Would you not rather have your precious little _in-_genue?"

Elizabeth went so high on "_in_-genue" that the hobbits nearly fell over from shivered eardrums. Hastily they recovered and became the persuasive duo that everyone knew. "_No. Signora. The world. Wants. YOU._"

The orchestra slid – a tad rockily – into the opening of Prima Donna. Merry and Pippin spread open their arms in synchrony and began serenading.

"_Prima Donna, first lady of the stage_

_Your devotees are on their knees to implore you_

_Can you bow out when they're shouting your name?_

_Think of how they all adore you!"_

They linked arms and began to skip around a puzzled Elizabeth like flower-girls.

"_Prima Donna, enchant us once again_

_Think of your muse, and of the queues round the theatre!_

_Can you deny us the triumph in store?_

_Sing, Prima Donna once more!_"

Aragorn decided to join in the fun. Flinging his arms out so energetically that he almost whacked Andromache in the face, he sang: "_Christine spoke of an angel…_"

Divas are people who excel at seizing the circumstances for their own limelight. Since Elizabeth was supposed to be a diva, she did exactly that. Pirouetting forward and finishing in some sort of statuesque sun-worship position, she took a deep breath and carolled into La Carlotta's part. "_Prima Donna, your song shall live again!"_

"_Think of your public_," suggested Merry.

"_You took a snub,_"sang Elizabeth, "_but there's a public who needs you!_"

"_She has heard the voice_," murmured Andromache aside of Christine, "_of the Angel of Music_…"

"_Those who hear your voice liken you to an angel_!" eulogized Merry and Pippin as they Shire-jigged across the stage in synchrony.

"_Think of their cry of undying support_!" expounded Elizabeth as she performed an elaborate series of under-arm whirls – all the more elaborate because she lacked conspiciously a partner. "_Follow where the limelight leads you!_"

"_Is this ghost an angel or a madman_?" mused Briseis as she flitted after Elizabeth like a haphazard butterfly.

"_Angel or madman_?" echoed Aragorn as he struck a pose at downstage right like the Statue of Liberty.

"_Leading ladies are a trial,_" commented Pippin as he hopped past on one foot.

Andromache flung her arms dramatically into the air. "_Heaven help you, those who doubt_!"

"_You'll sing again and to unending ovation_!"

"_Orders! Warnings! Lunatic demands_!"

"_This miscasting will invite damnation…_"

"_Tears…oaths … lunatic demands are regular occurrences!_"

"_Bliss or damnation? Which has claimed her?_"

"_Think how you'll shine in that final encore! Sing, prima donna, once more!_"

"_Oh fools, to have flouted his warnings!_"

"_Surely, for her sake_…"

"_Surely he'll strike back_…"

"_Surely there'll be further scenes - worse than this!_"

It did not seem highly possible that there would be. Everyone onstage was hyper and literally quite mad.

Merry and Pippin galloped to the front and began their cheerful gossip duet. "_Who'd believe a diva happy to relieve a chorus girl, who's gone and slept with the patron? Raoul and the soubrette, entwined in love's duet! Although he may demur, he must have been with her!_"

"_O fortunata_!" shrieked Elizabeth. The Italian was back in full force. "_Non ancor abbandonata_!"

"_You'd never get away with all this in a play,_" continued the hobbit managers,"_but if it's loudly sung and in a foreign tongue, it's just the sort of story audiences adore, in fact a perfect opera!_"

They collapsed upon their knees before a glowing Elizabeth.

"_Prima Donna, the world is at your feet,_

_A nation waits, and how it hates to be cheated_!"

Elizabeth hitched up her skirts and clambered up onto the nearest high object, which happened to be the managers' desk. "_The stress that falls upon a famous prima donna! Terrible diseases, coughs and colds and sneezes! Still, the dryest throat will reach the highest note, in search of perfect opera!_"

"_Christine plays the Pageboy_," counted Aragorn off his fingers, "_Carlotta plays the Countess_…"

"…should you dare to…" hissed Andromache, posing downstage right.

"…when you once again…" whispered Briseis as she formed a symmetrical accompaniment to Andromache's pose.

Everyone flung their arms out in their most dramatic imitation of opera, took deep breaths, opened their mouths and sang.

"_Light up the stage with your age-old RAPPO-O-O-ORT……Sing, Prima Donna……once more!_"

And that was the moment Jack chose to make his thespian reappearance onstage, with the best of piratical swaggers and Caribbean accents. At least he had remembered the line.

"_So it is to be war between us! If these demands are not met, a disaster beyond your imagination will OCCUR!_"

And the cast sang: "_ONCE MORE_!"

That was the moment the curtain chose to collapse.

* * *

"And would you believe it?" exclaimed Elizabeth as she swayed precariously, but managed to shove the edge of the cloth back into its hold. "She actually _liked_ it!"

"She said it was confused," murmured Will in agreement as he helped steady the cloth.

They were balanced somewhat perilously atop a soaring ladder, trying to fit the curtain back into its hooks and holds and simultaneously discussing Galadriel's extraordinary tastes. After spending ten minutes praising the cast for an 'exuberant, dramatic, life-inundated, _confused_ performance", she had swept off to direct the curtain back into place, all the while humming Think of Me.

"A bit more separation between the hooks!" came the order from below. Elizabeth and Will sighed and obeyed. "Good! Very good! I think it should be fixed – won't you come down now, dears?"

Aragorn and Hector were already climbing down the other ladder. "Let's go," said Elizabeth to Will, and put out her foot to feel for the rung.

Will put out his foot at the same time. His foot came down upon Elizabeth's rather hard and struck it off the rung.

For a split and terrifying second, Elizabeth hung suspended in mid-air, six metres above the stage, one foot hanging off and the rest of her threatening to follow. Then she overbalanced.

Elizabeth screamed and clutched at the ladder rung. She missed and clutched Will's arm instead. With a yell, Will fell off too, and they both went tumbling downwards.

For six awful metres they plummeted down, screaming and fighting against the onrush of gravity. Will hit the stage with a sickening crack. Elizabeth missed it and fell another couple metres. The ground was coming on awfully fast, wasn't it?

She struck the floor head-first.

Pain cracked through her head like a lightning bolt. Elizabeth lay in the darkness that was soaking into her skin, wondering at the numbing pain and listening idly to the voices around her that were swimming in and out of focus. The confused mutter of the crowd – Eponine's high-pitched scream cutting across the murmur: "_Mon Dieu, Elizabeth!_" – footsteps rushing towards her – the murmur growing into a horrified gasping – "Blood!" someone screamed – and then Galadriel's voice soaring calmly and efficiently above the general noise.

"It's severe concussion. Get both of them to the hospital wing. Now!"

She was being lifted up, propped on something, carried. As her head lolled and the darkness shifted uneasily, a nasty little thought fought its way to the front of her crowded brain.

_Didn't Foaly say something bad about the Hospital Wing_?

The darkness shifted again, like a great black wave of dizziness, and consumed her utterly.

**End of Chapter**

_Next chapter coming…_**Stargazing and Sleepovers**


	21. Stargazing and Sleepovers

**A&A&A Boarding School**

Authoresses' Note: Hah. Bah. Poetry Bash. Fanfiction hence ignored. Not at all sorry.

**Akwyn: **We suppose we must resign to the spinach and black peppers. We've been _bad_.

**Mizamour: **Like this? AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA?

**Tsuki Yume: **What a pity. Sure Venice must be lovely. Ah, Europe's getting _so_ ex nowadays.

**Capricornus152: **Wait till Friday. There's quite some A/B then. Thing is, we have _so_ many pairings going on…all canonical, of course…

**Sapphire Dragon: **Supersintonado? Cool word. That's a funny pun: "After the curtains fell, two of the students decided to follow."

**Elenhin: **Boromir's reaction to Faramir's change-of-heart was a bit…weird…

**Aristo Seran **& **Onashii: **Note that Legolas will be appropriately dignified after this. Note: Dignified does not equal absolved.

**Lee: **You mustn't punish yourself so. We know certain people who have more of a reason to review than you _haven't_ reviewed (pokeManveriMirkielpoke) We're watching Phantom in London _cette_ June. The Producers? The songs seem to be quite nice…

**Catwraith: **Yes, yes, _coming_……Not ballet, although we would love to learn more about Irish step dance. It sounds awfully fascinating.

Lydia is trying to set up a website, but is failing miserably due to FreeWebs Hosting, which is trying to fight her all the way and succeeding brilliantly against her. In the meantime, on to the new decade – and we finally find out what lives in the hospital wing – and what Legolas has been up to all this while……

**21. Stargazing and Sleepovers**

The Company of Heroines converged instantly upon Lord Elrond as he emerged from the hospital wing. "Elizabeth! How is she?"

"She will live," answered Elrond rather irritably. He sounded weary. "So will the Turner lad. Was it not _I_ who healed them?"

None of them responded to this touch of egotism. Éowyn let out a long expulsion of breath. The knot of worry in her heart loosened by a lot.

"May we see her?" asked Holly.

"You may not," was the answer. "Your friend is fine; there is no need to trouble the hospital nurses. Now get to your dinner."

They weren't really in the mood for dinner at the moment, but Elrond's eyebrows were firmly locked together and promised bad things if they didn't obey. Defeated, the Company slouched down to the dining hall.

Dinner didn't really smell too bad – it appeared to be venison chunks on jasmine rice. The only weird element seemed to be the queer green mush smeared on the venison, which was rumoured to be a widespread mishmash of various mysterious legumes. It turned out to be quite tasteless.

Even Eponine didn't seem interested in the mush. "I wonder how Elizabeth's getting on," she mused mournfully.

"She'll be fine," said Holly, and with a great effort tried to turn attention away from tragedy to something else. "We've got Astronomy tonight at 9.00. On the Astronomy Tower…I wonder where that is?"

"Easy," replied Éowyn, "the tallest one. I think that's unfair – making us stay up late for stargazing. What's the point in stargazing, anyway?"

Anna shrugged. "Bet it's boring."

"Almost everything here is boring," agreed Eponine. "Wish we could skip it. Well, Elizabeth's in the hospital wing, so she can…oh. Oh dear."

The others were too nice to point out that she had brought them all back to depression, so they slowly sank instead into despondence in silence, poking at green mush and mentally mourning their fallen (quite literally) comrade.

* * *

"Hermione," observed Ron complainatively, "you don't have to bring so many books."

Hermione gave him a look askance. "Unlike certain people, I do _advance_ reading."

"I bet," retorted Ron, "that it's so dark up there you can't even take notes."

He had a good point. Night on A&A&A was dark, velvety night, black to the point of choking. The many stars didn't really help.

They turned a corner and came to the spiral staircase that wound all the way up through the Astronomy Tower. Harry craned his neck to see the top. "It's really high," he observed.

"Then we had better get started," replied Hermione cheerfully, adjusting her bookbag strap and putting her foot upon the first step. "Don't want to be late, do we?"

Harry and Ron had to agree. Being late was severely frowned upon in A&A&A, and every teacher did their utmost best to discourage it, by being particularly generous in the meting out of detention.

Five storeys later, Harry began to think that they might be a tad late.

Ten storeys later, Ron suggested, panting, that they might stop for a little rest.

"How far is it?" gasped Ron as they leaned against the curving wall of the stairwell. Hermione had put down her book bag and was trying to catch her breath.

Harry peered up through the dim opening framed by the curling steps. It didn't look any closer than it had on ground level. "Can't tell."

Hermione would have climbed Mt. Everest if the classroom had been on the other side. "Let's go," she panted, and they set off trudging determinedly.

They went on trudging determinedly until the fifteenth floor – that was, approximately the fifteenth floor; Harry was quite sure he had lost count along the way.

"Why the hell do they have to build it so high?" exclaimed Ron, glaring ferociously at the impenetrable heights of the winding stair.

"Language, Ron," gasped Hermione. She didn't have any breath left to say anymore.

Twenty floors later, Harry was all ready to throw his jaded body down the hole in the middle of the stairwell – except, of course, that it would be a horrendous waste of all that effort they spent getting up there.

The twenty-first floor was, fortunately, the last one. The three tired mountaineers dragged themselves out of the dimness of the stairwell, into the refreshingly open night air of the rooftop. It was indeed a rooftop classroom, although it had not forsaken the three-by-three seating arrangement, even at such heights. It was certainly a good place for an Astronomy class. The stars looked as close as electric lighting in a normal classroom.

Not that any of them noticed all this. It was all they could manage to haul themselves to their seats and flop down into them with audible sighs.

When Hermione had got most of her breath back, she observed with a start that they actually seemed quite early. As a matter of fact, no one seemed to have attempted that colossal climb just yet. The other seats were all empty.

There was a clip-clopping of hooves. Harry blinked. Was that Foaly? No, it seemed to be another centaur. A more handsome one that Foaly. The starlight glimmered faintly on his glossy flanks and his golden waves of hair.

"I am Firenze," said this apparition of starlit rooftops.

Harry blinked. Again.

"You need not worry," went on Firenze in his serenely calm voice. "They will be late. I have foreseen it in the stars."

They nodded blankly.

Firenze and the stars proved to be accurate, however. It was fifteen minutes before Artemis turned up, sweating more than he usually did on a normal day. Fifteen minutes later the rest of the class began to trickle in, in varying states of fatigue, depending on their level of fitness. Aragorn looked as if he had been taking an evening stroll. Arwen did not.

Firenze waited till they were all seated, before beginning sonorously. "Astronomy may seem to some a useless skill. This is untrue to those who have been trained in the art of true stargazing – an art which I am hired to teach you. Gaze up at the constellations above you."

They did so. Several necks immediately cricked.

"Observe," came Firenze's slow words. "How the constellations circle. Each one with a meaning, settling inexorably into the patterns of fate. Let us take them one…by one…"

"Knew it was boring," muttered Eponine, flopping back onto her desk and cradling her head on her arms.

Firenze's voice went on and on. Their necks proceeded to ache inexorably, like the maelstrom of stars whirling overhead. "Can you see Venus? It is the little one over there, but still so bright…"

Achilles could not see Venus. He couldn't even tell any of the little pin-pointed dots of light apart. He followed Eponine's example.

On and on about Venus. How many attributes did the idiot planet have?

Mulch grunted and curled up in his chair.

Firenze appeared supremely unaware that the attention span of the class was wavering on the brink of absolute destruction. He rambled on.

Pippin was snoring. Gimli gently turned him on his side so that he stopped, and then went to sleep himself.

There was a series of rhythmic thunks as the heads of the French Revolution hit their desks syncophantically. Firenze didn't even look up.

Most of the people whose necks had been cricked had fallen asleep on the desks of the persons behind them. The latter didn't really mind, since they weren't conscious either.

Firenze appeared not to notice that his class had gone comatose. He went on rambling to Hermione, who was probably the only student struggling to keep awake. She was trying not to look at the time, which was 11.36pm and severely overshooting the original lesson period.

Eventually bookishness was defeated by Morpheus. Hermione's pen fell from her motionless hand, and the centaur was the only one left awake and preaching.

Overhead, the stars in their cosmos sea whirled upon their majestic paths of celestial divinity, magnificently, regally, inexorably…

* * *

Achilles awoke.

He had been having a quite a good dream. He faintly remembered it involving Briseis. And tonsil hockey, indirectly.

Waking up was a very painful experience. His neck ached. That was the first thing he noted. The second thing was that the rest of him ached almost as much.

Ow.

He opened his eyes.

Morning sunlight, first gently, then demandingly warm, washed over his face in a wave of heat. The rooftop classroom was filled with sleeping students. Firenze was nowhere in sight.

Achilles swore under his breath, leaned over and shook Briseis gently awake. As an afterthought, he shook Andromache a lot harder.

"What?" cried Briseis, gazing around her dazedly. Then, as realisation dawned: "Oh dear."

They moved around the class, hastily shaking people awake. Achilles marched over to Artemis and grabbed him by the arm, twisting it around. Artemis came awake swiftly and yelped.

"Seven fifty-five," muttered Achilles, reading off Artemis's gold watch. "Damnit, we're late for Celeborn's class!"

Hermione's face took on a look of utter despair.

"We can make it if we hurry!" exclaimed Chix Verbil. He darted towards the stairwell and plunged downwards through the middle vortex.

"Easy for him to say," complained Haldir sniffily. "He's got _wings_."

Hermione scooped up her books and ran determinedly for the stairs. Ron pelted after her going, "Slow down, we're going to be late _anyway_……"

Merry looked distraught. "It's nearly eight? But that means……"

"…no breakfast!" wailed Pippin.

The faces of the Short Alliance took on a hangdog look.

"Chix is right," declared Aragorn, addressing the whole class. "There's only a very slight chance we could make it, but it's worth a try."

"Spoken like a true leader," commented Arwen admiringly, handing him his Astronomy book. "Let's go."

Looking down the bottomless vortex of the stairwell, however, would have made the hearts of the staunchest quail in fear.

Aragorn made a start by moving towards the steps. Everyone else followed edgily.

Even though going down was a lot easier than going up, they were only at the nineteenth floor when the bell rang. There went all chances of getting to class on time.

At floor eighteen, Pippin was struck by a sudden idea. "Remember the first day of school?" he panted to Merry.

"Yes," Merry panted. "Why?"

"Remember when I fell over the banisters?"

Merry stopped. "You're mad."

Pippin hastily amended. "I don't mean fall over the banisters! I was going to suggest _sliding _down the banisters."

"Ah." Light dawned upon Merry. "I see."

Two floors below, Aragorn, in the lead of the rooftop exodus, was treated to the sight of two hobbits speeding down the banisters at a supremely speedy rate, whooping and shrieking loudly. They rounded a couple of curves and shot out of sight.

Aragorn stopped short. He gazed after both of them. And then, before Arwen could begin remonstrating, he vaulted onto the banister, long legs dangling, and was off after them.

It started a new class trend.

Enjolras had always been one for revolutionary ideas. He leapt onto the banister and, with loud whoops of encouragement, got the French Revolution spiraling down after the pioneers.

Éowyn laughed out loud, and followed them as well. The Company of Heroines adored extreme sports.

Van Helsing, not to be outdone by anything Anna Valerious did, scrambled onboard and slid out of sight.

By that time, most of the more liberal members of the class were sliding down the banisters. It conquered distance at an remarkable rate. The hobbits shot off the end at ground level less than a minute later, landing splat on the ground. Aragorn landed on top of them, followed by a consecutive rain of revolutionaires.

When everyone had more or less recovered from their rough ride, they had to pick themselves up and walk, like so many battered beanstalks, to Quenya class.

Celeborn was majorly annoyed. "I detest late students even more than late homework," he pronounced to his tardy class. "But since you have had such a late night, I will not press matters. Now, _please pay attention_ to my Elvish lesson."

Quenya lessons were Celeborn's pet subject. It was after all, his native language. It constantly irked him that of all the languages he taught, students seemed to find it the most difficult.

Celeborn proceeded to teach them how to write the date in Quenya, by forcibly drilling the names of the different months into their heads. It was painfully, mind-numbingly boring. Holly found a piece of colourful construction paper in her file, and she and Éowyn began a cheerful 'Get Well Soon Or Else' card to Elizabeth.

"Miss Short!"

Holly jumped, and guiltily shoved the card under her desk. She eyed Celeborn nervously as he advanced on her. "Er…yeah?"

"Name the fifth month of the year!"

Holly racked her brains. "Er…May?"

"_I meant in Quenya Elvish_."

Holly swallowed. "Oh yes. Elvish. Um. Er." Normally she was fluent in most languages, but Elvish was a bit out of her depth.

Celeborn gave a shark-toothed grin. "My dear girl, have you been listening?"

"Of course!" expounded Holly, trying to stall for time. "That is…I have been listening, but the word kinda slipped my mind…wait a minute, it'll probably reappear in my head by then…"

"_Lótessë_," said Artemis quietly.

"Thinking, thinking," went on Holly. "_What did you say? _Professor Celeborn, I do know the word, except that I cannot recall if there are any accents…_Are you giving me the answer?_"

"I should suppose so," muttered Artemis under his breath. "May in Elvish is _Lótessë._ Would you like me to spell it out to you?"

"Oh yes!" exclaimed Holly. "Now I remember. _Lótessë_. That was it. _Lótessë_."

Celeborn stalked off, disappointed in his effort to punish a student for inattention, having been foiled by Holly's apparently Lazarus-like memory. Holly leaned over. "Thanks," she whispered. "I didn't know you were the sort that helped people with their homework."

"I'm not," responded Artemis coolly. "But then, I'm not Draco Malfoy either."

The class had had a late night, and fifteen minutes into the lesson they were already yawning. Celeborn noted this and switched tactics by giving them groupwork to do instead.

He patrolled the class, separating a squabbling Grantaire and Gavroche and primly correcting Achilles's multiple pronunciation mistakes, until he came to Jack's bench. Jack was sitting by himself, alone and forlorn.

"Where are your groupmates?" inquired Celeborn.

"Hospital wing," muttered Jack.

Celeborn was at a loss. In the end, he decided to let Jack off the hook and exempt his bench from having to pass up the groupwork. Jack went on looking forlorn as he left.

He was wondering about Will and Elizabeth.

* * *

Elizabeth awoke.

For a moment, she thought that she had gone blind. She couldn't see a thing, although her eyes were open. She sat up bolt upright in shock, and shadows moved behind the screen of the bandages.

Bandages?

Elizabeth touched her face. It had been positively mummified in linen bandages.

Elizabeth gave a little scream, and tore at the material with frantic fingers. With her rending fingernails she managed to dig a small hole amidst the bandages, and ripped the entire mask off.

She was in what must be the hospital wing – a dim room with two rows of neat, unadorned beds facing each other. The beds on either side of her were filled. On her left was Will, whose head had been swaddled in much the same way as hers had been. His leg was monstrous with wrapping, and he appeared to be on a drip. Elizabeth looked at her own hand, and espied a thin tube emerging from the flesh. She was on a drip too.

The motionless figure on her right could have been a mummy, fully wrapped and bound. The facial features were hidden beneath the many layers of bandage, but there was no mistaking that bright golden hair that leaked out from under them.

"Legolas?" queried Elizabeth.

The form wriggled slightly, and rolled stiffly to face her. "Is that Elizabeth?" it said, sounding extremely muffled. "I saw the two of you brought in, when they changed my bandages."

"We beat you up _that_ bad?" asked Elizabeth. She wasn't sure if she should appear remorseful.

"That's what they think," mumbled Legolas indistinctly. "They won't let me out. After I'd torn away the bandages for the first time, they bandaged my hands together so that I 'wouldn't do myself any more harm'. I can't even sit up."

"Who's they?" The situation sounded severe.

Before Legolas could answer, there were frantic footsteps around the corner, and an entire bevy of hospital nurses burst into view. They were all swathed in hospital robes and fearsome surgical masks, and they were waving a large collection of dangerous-looking medical implements. "She's awake!" shrieked one. "_She's awake!_"

"Um," began Elizabeth.

The nurses gave her no time to say any more. They pounced like voracious wolves upon a single defenceless rabbit. Four of them seized her head and shoulders and forced her back down onto the bed, while another two began bandaging her forehead. Elizabeth kicked, screamed and struggled. To no avail – there were simply too many of them.

"She's hysterical," remarked one of the masked nurses. "Must be the concussion. We'll give her a little something to make her sleep."

"_Nooo!_" shrieked Elizabeth, but through the cracks in the bandage, she saw the nurses part like the Red Sea before the one holding the dripping needle. Elizabeth opened her mouth to scream, and the resulting bellow was ear-shattering, made even more so by the sharp pain in her arm as the needle went in.

The world proceeded to break up into coloured spots, which dissolved casually into a thick black background……

**End of Chapter**

_Next chapter coming…_**Shootouts and the Sewage System**


	22. Shootouts and the Sewage System

**A&A&A Boarding School**

Author's Note: We have been away for we-don't-know-how-long, and we really don't have anything to say about this.

This story will henceforth be updated at a rate of painstaking leisure, because Lydia has Other Commitments and Rukuelle has been discouraged from using the computer until further notice, because of Dismal Performance.

We suppose we should say more, and thank all the nice people who kept reviewing anyway, but we think we can't, because Fanfiction has banned callouts, and anyway we're much too tired.

**22. Shootouts and the Sewage System**

"Thursday's a very physical day," Holly told Éowyn as she referred to her loyal timetable. "Look. Firearms. Then recess. Then P.E., then Defence Skills."

"Lovely," said Éowyn brightly.

"Dreadful," muttered Artemis, slinging his bag morosely over his shoulder and stalking out.

The two girls stared after him.

"He's been acting odd lately."

"I noticed."

"Why?"

"Would I know? Ask me not how a Mud Boy's mind works."

"Oh yes, touchy subject."

They weren't the only ones commenting on recent odd behaviour.

Behind them, Boromir collected his stuff and walked out of the classroom, feeling rather dazed. The reason for this was because just after they had been dismissed, Faramir had turned to him and said enthusiastically: "Boromir, do you agree with the concept of act-utilitarianism, or do you think rule-utilitarianism addresses moral issues better?"

He couldn't remember what he'd said. In all probability it had been, "Glug?"

Faramir had given him a querulous look and remarked somewhat disappointedly, "You aren't very into philosophy, are you?" After which he had bounced off to join Éomer's blonde sister – what was her name again? It had an accent in it.

He heard them earnestly discussing various communities of inquiry as they went down to the firing range for Firearms.

Root had gotten bored with targets. His idea of good fun was to throw his recruits – sorry, _students_ – into the field, or failing that, some form of field simulation, and watch them fight for survival. Preferably on a TV screen, accompanied by a good cigar and crisps.

He was quite fond of the ruined city. Foaly had built it under the firing range as one of the field sims. It was not yet entirely completed, but the completed bits were really quite realistic. It was, in effect, a maze of deserted houses, alleys, boulevards, etc. It even had a sewage system, though he'd never been in it, thank Frond.

He decided today that it was time they got some real physical training in guerilla warfare.

"So," he said, strolling up and down the ranks, "you're all in the groups Vinyáya gave you for P.E., are you?"

Red, Green, Orange, Blue and Gold nodded back at him. Gold, already quite pathetic, was looking even more so with the loss of two of their finest (proportionally speaking) who were still under lock, key and bandage in the hospital wing.

"Everybody has one stun gun, three stun grenades each?"

The stun weapons were another of Foaly's holiday projects. They stunned a person, not fatally, but paralysed them for a total of ten minutes. During that time, they were perfectly capable of mental processes, but had as much movement ability as a dead salami.

"Each group is equipped with a bazooka?"

The bazookas were large. They stunned things too, but at the same time they blew the stunned victims into nearby walls. Root rather looked forward to seeing that bit.

"Very good. Now, each group toddle off to their respective entrances. There are five flags in there, one per group. First group to find their flag and get all their members out intact, wins the prize. Yes, you guessed it, it's more chocolate bars. Beat it, kids."

The teams moved off despondently. A few minutes later, they were edging warily into Ruined City Field Simulation. Root settled back to watch the screen, hand snaking out towards the bag of crisps.

"Let's split up," suggested Éowyn. "Holly, Éomer and I in one team. Eponine…"

"…will go with Marius," interjected Eponine.

"Right. Anna, take care of Trub and Grub."

"Oi," began Trouble, but the rest were already splitting up. By mutual consent Eponine and Marius took the bazooka with them.

Holly went first. This was because, in the event of an ambush, the enemy would be most likely aiming at head height, which was not where Holly's head would be.

She paused behind a crumbling brick wall, putting her finger to her lips, and drew her stun gun. Éowyn and Éomer hunkered down beside her and listened.

They heard footsteps further up the alleyway, and voices.

"I don't like this, Harry. It's violence."

"Shhh, Hermione! Someone might hear us!"

"I don't know how to use this thing anyway. Whaddya do, pull the little lever thingy?"

"It's a _trigger_, Ron. Oh, you wouldn't get, it's a Muggle thing."

"And don't point it that way, that's where the shot comes out from. Like this. _This_."

Holly raised her hand. _One, two, three…_

They leapt into the alleyway.

"Like this?…" Ron was saying, and caught sight of them. "Oh, bloody…"

Holly shot him. Hermione screamed and turned towards him. Holly's next shot got her in the side, and she crumpled beside him. Harry yelled and fired repeatedly at Éomer, who threw himself flat and shot his opponent in the knee.

The paralysis spread swiftly. Harry felt his knee go numb, then his whole leg, and then he toppled over sideways. It felt like _Petrificus Totalus._

The Red trio worked quickly. Holly divested their victims of their stun grenades. Éowyn and Éomer both argued vehemently that it would be dishonourable to take their guns too, but gave in when Holly suggested throwing them over the wall instead. Finished, they moved out of sight and turned the corner.

Harry swore in his head for a long time, and was quite impressed with himself when he managed to keep it up for the entire ten minutes.

* * *

Van Helsing was with Carl and Malfoy. This arrangement annoyed him. It was his opinion that Carl had no guts to shoot a gun, and although Malfoy did, he wouldn't know where to point it. 

If it hadn't been for him, the other two would have been stunned by Chix Verbil, who had been hovering above as an aerial sniper. And even then, he had been the one to prevent them from walking into Haldir on the other side of the wall, who had been waiting for Chix to report back.

He sighed, and pushed his hat back as they entered a wide plaza, surrounded by empty shophouses.

Shutters creaked. Tattered drapes wisped in the non-existent breeze. This really was a ghost town, wasn't it?

He'd like to see what was going on.

"Stay here," he told the other two. "Shoot anyone who approaches if they're not from Green. I'm climbing up to take a look."

Putting the gun between his teeth, he scrambled up the pipe running up the wall of the nearest shophouse, and climbed onto the tiled roof. Crouched low in case of more snipers, he surveyed the scenery.

No flags in sight. If he rose up on his knees he could see Aragorn, Arwen and Hector snooping about the warehouses, and further in the distance the large body of six French Revolutionaires. They didn't seem to be headed for either Green team though, so Van Helsing ignored them, and prepared, after making a mental map of the roadworks, to climb down.

That was when he heard the barrage of shots.

Carl shrieked. Malfoy managed to get out a couple of expletives before the paralysis got his jaw muscles.

Van Helsing turned in one smooth move, gun arm swinging out. The first shot got Grub straight in the front, knocking him off his precarious perch on a shophouse windowsill. The next one just missed Trouble's ear and zoomed off into the alleyway. He leapt up on the tiles, cloak swinging behind him, pointing his gun as Trouble rolled out from behind the dustbin he had been using as a shield and dashing off down the alley.

In the dusty attic of the shophouse behind him, Anna Valerious propped the glass window open, raised her gun, and took careful aim.

* * *

The Gold team had picked up their two stunned teammates, who were even now undergoing a dressing-down by Jack on improper guerilla tactics. 

"You could have been less obvious about flying on top of him! Haven't you ever heard of camouflage? Oh yeah, of course not, you're bright bloody green. And you! You were supposed to be on your guard, not doing your hair? _What_ is the blazes with you elves about _doing your bloody hair_?"

"I was not," sniffed Haldir reproachfully.

"Aye? Then explain the position we found you stunned in."

Haldir said nothing, and sniffed again.

"I think we'd better stick together this time round," Jack went on. "Oh hell, I _knew_ I shouldn't have been leaving the bazooka alone with Cosette and Lili. The bimbo's likely been using the gunpowder for nail polish."

And with this moderately inaccurate statement, which proved his lack of acquaintance with the workings of stun bazookas and feminine cosmetics, Captain Jack Sparrow rounded the corner and stopped short at the sight before him.

The alley opened up into a little courtyard with a dead fountain. Cosette was lying in a heap against the wall. Lili was floating in the stagnant fountain. And right before the chipped marble basin stood the Gold Team's bazooka, with Arwen aiming it like a stunning angel of death.

"Holy Mary Mother of God," said Jack very fast, and turned to run.

Arwen smiled, and fired.

The blast took Jack through the wall of a warehouse, which promptly crumbled over him.

Chix took to the air, but Aragorn leapt off a nearby low balcony and tackled him to the ground, where their fall was conveniently cushioned by Haldir.

The two Green spun around when they heard footsteps running, but relaxed when they saw it was Paris and Helen who rounded the corner. Paris took in the scene in a couple of seconds, swore and turned to run.

Hector appeared directly behind him, stun gun aimed casually.

Paris stared at him. "You can't do this, Hector. You're always on my side, brother!"

"I was," said Hector non-commitedly. "Until, of course, you chose to leave _my_ side."

Helen screamed as Paris fell over backwards from the shot, and backed into the courtyard, fumbling for her gun. It slipped out of her trembling hands and skittered across the paving stones. She dived for it, and her hands closed around it at the same time that another's did.

The two most beautiful girls in the entire first year froze, and stared at each other.

Sunlight glinted off Helen's rich gold locks, and shimmered darkly in Arwen's. One pair of eyes was filled with the limpid, fragile, delicate beauty that could have launched a thousand ships. The other pair was grey and magnificent as the sea, grey as the dusk of mortal men.

Calmly, Arwen tugged the gun from out of Helen's unresisting hands, lifted it and thwacked the barrel against Helen's temple.

"There," she remarked casually, rising and indifferently tossing the gun next to Helen's fair face with its lovely, shut eyelids, "goes a girl with no spirit. Never could abide those."

* * *

The Blue team, like all strategically-minded teams advised by strategically-minded people (i.e. Artemis) had split up into threes. 

Boromir wasn't sure he liked this arrangement. He was with Artemis, whom he still bore a grudge against for the monkey-bar business, and Faramir, who was getting weirder and more intellectual by the second.

They were lying in the middle of a wide open-air square, in the minute shelter of the knee-high wall of what appeared to be a well of extensive circumference.

It was a rather poor shelter, but they had been forced to take it, as the three people on the other side were rather handy with guns, especially that Holly Short.

"Er, who votes we rush them?" suggested Boromir.

"Not me," said Faramir hastily.

"I think," said Artemis, eyes shut, "that we should stay here."

On the other side of the assumed well……

"It's very dangerous, Holly."

"Yeah. You could get shot."

"At least you'll find out where they are, then."

"Couldn't we just fire madly and wait for them to reply?"

"The point, Éowyn, is to _disable_ them. I'm sure I can get at least one of them."

"There you go again, thinking that being short means you can do everything."

"I don't think that! _Shielding_, though, means I can do quite a lot."

"Can't we rush them together?"

"We might all end up stunned. Send a trooper in first, that's the idea."

"You're talking like a military again."

"Well, see you round the other side, then."

Holly, gun at the ready, began to wriggle like a snake around the circumference of the well.

The thing about round things was that they were – well, _round_. It was a bit hard to pinpoint where you stood on that sort of diagram.

If she was lucky, they wouldn't spot her till she was right under them.

She was lucky. They didn't, until she unshielded and shot Boromir in the ankle.

Faramir sprang up with a yell. A barrage of fire made him throw himself flat again. Holly ducked the fire too, and was fumbling to bring the barrel up again when she felt cold metal behind her ear.

She glanced as far back as she dared, and met icy blue eyes.

"Well?" said Artemis coolly.

"Look down," replied Holly with equal calm.

Artemis shot a quick glance downwards. Holly's barrel was resting next to his ribs.

"Up you get," ordered Holly.

"I'm supposed to be saying that."

"Shut up. On three. And no tricks."

They yanked each other upright.

In the control room, Root watched the screen, impressed. They'd learnt a. hostaging and b. stalemates.

Three other heads popped up from behind various parts of the well. They were too fascinated with the stalemate tableau to shoot each other.

"I have faster reflexes," warned Holly.

"But your gun is in my ribs. It would take approximately a quarter of a second for the paralysis to reach my hand, and by that time I think I would have responded in shooting _you_. And please," this time to Éowyn, "please don't try shooting me. Judging from the trajectory of your shot, I should probably fall forward into this, well, well, and take Holly with me. So…"

He froze. His torso jerked.

"You talk too much," said Holly. "It's distrac – "

_She_ jerked.

"Quarter of a second, I said," muttered Artemis, and they both toppled forward into the opening.

Éowyn jumped up with a gasp. Faramir took a pot shot at her. For the next few moments, Root's screen was distorted with laser crossfire. When it ceased, all that was left was Éomer, peering into the well and looking greatly apprehensive.

"Er. Éowyn? Éowyn, are you down there? Can you hear me?" After a long pause, "Er, Faramir? Éowyn? Faramir?"

Then after the echoes died away: "Damn trajectory."

* * *

Jack came round. He appeared to be lying under a large pile of rubble. What followed was a very vibrant speech, with language that would have made a biker blush. 

He stopped. Something, dislodged from the debris around his head, fluttered down to land on his face.

He freed an arm and lifted it off. It was attached to a thin pole.

It was the green flag.

A-ha.

Vengeance is a dish best served cold.

* * *

Someone else in this maze of a false city was holding another flag. 

"Gold?" said Mulch. "That's Jack's team."

"Just sticking up out of one of those barrels, too," observed Pippin. "I say, it's awfully lucky we got it first. _Anyone_ could have found it."

The other two ignored him. "Hide it," suggested Merry. "We should keep it on us, so they can't find it."

They bickered for a bit on a suitable hiding place. Eventually, Mulch stuffed it into the bazooka.

"What if we want to fire it?" complained Pippin.

"Then we take it out first," explained Mulch patiently.

"But what if…"

"Ah," said a deep voice behind them. "What do we have here?"

Slowly, all three turned around.

"Boo," said Achilles.

"Give me a hand here, Briseis," called Andromache some time later. "My arm's too large for the hole."

Briseis came over from where she had been stripping Merry of his grenades. Her arm was a nice fit, and she drew out the flag triumphantly.

"We'd better keep it," said Andromache practically. "Best not to let Gold find out…"

Achilles was fingering his gun. His soldier's sense told him that something was wrong.

"So where shall we…Achilles?" Both girls turned to him. "Achilles?"

"Someone's watching us," said Achilles.

He spun around, but he was too late. Gavroche, who against all probability was sitting on the wall behind them, giggled, bit the stun grenade and hurled it at them.

When the smoke cleared, he waved Grantaire and Enjolras over the wall.

"Feather in your cap, eh, kid?" mused Enjolras, twirling the flag so that the gold cloth caught the engineered sunlight. "We'll make a soldier of you yet." He turned to Grantaire. "Now, if you've got a spare bottle or something, we can stuff it…"

"Stuff what?"

The three turned around slowly. Enjolras found himself looking down a large bazooka's mouth, positioned at the end of the alleyway.

"Freeze, please," said Aragorn. "Enjolras, if you'll allow Hector to shoot you – thank you very much, it saves so much trouble on retrieving the flag. Now, Gavroche, Grantaire, if you'll just look over here……Arwen, fire, please."

When the dust explosion at the other end of the alley cleared, Aragorn emerged with the gold flag in his hand.

"Interesting," he said.

Hector prodded Achilles with his foot. "They'll be out for some time," he diagnosed. "I think we'd better wait around. Let's stuff the short people in the barrels, so they don't make trouble when they wake up."

* * *

The well wasn't, well, a well. It was worse. 

Holly and Artemis tumbled over each other down the shaft, which eventually edged out into a fairly steep slope. At the end of it, they landed with a splash in water. It was dim, but they didn't need their eyes to tell them where they were, just sensitive noses.

_Sewer_? thought Holly.

_Good heavens, oh no,_ thought Artemis.

The current bore them downstream, and into one of many tunnels, branching out into the dark of the underground. The water – sewage – was turgid in flow and quite viscous, so they floated.

Artemis came unparalysed first. Holly followed an eighth of a second later.

They clutched various bits of floating objects to keep upright, such as cardboard boxes, and made polite conversation.

"You realise that I'm not shooting you because I lost my gun at the entrance, don't you?"

"Capital of you, I'm sure."

"You realise that I realise that you're not shooting me, because you lost yours too?"

"I do applaud your ability at making connections, Holly."

"You realise that I could knock you out again, but that I haven't, because I just don't want to bother?"

"Believe me, I'd never have thought of that myself. Thank you _so_ much for putting that notion into my head."

"Artemis, you can be so bloody sarcastic."

"I assure you that I never try to be sarcastic. The whole concept of sarcasm is alien to me. If I ever sound sarcastic to you, it's probably a verbal accident."

"Shut up."

They floated on for a while more in uncompanionable silence.

Holly hated silence. Silence was particularly unnerving, especially when the other person contributing to the silence was Artemis Fowl. When Artemis wasn't talking, he stared. When he wasn't staring, he glared. And Artemis Fowl glaring was an issue of national security.

"We can't keep on floating like this," said Holly eventually.

"What do you suggest we do, then?"

Holly looked up. It was nearly pitch dark in there, except for the occasional thin ring of light from a manhole cover.

"Try a manhole," she advised.

They trod water and eyed the cover overhead.

"We could throw things at it," suggested Artemis. "Maybe knock it open. Even if it does not, someone might notice and open the cover."

"Throw what?"

Artemis felt around in the sewer, wincing as his hand dipped into the foul waters, and finally selected what felt like a glass bottle from the objects floating past.

"What's that?" inquired his fair companion.

"A beer bottle."

Holly's eyes widened in the dark. "Are you cr – " she began, but Artemis had already hurled it at the cover.

She just managed to grab his arm and duck both of them underwater before the glass shards showered down.

They both surfaced spluttering. "What," gasped Artemis, "was _that_ for? It _stank_!"

"Look, I just saved your life, Mud Boy." Holly sighed, and picked a plastic container out of the water. "Stick to wood and plastic from now on, all right?"

* * *

Éowyn floated. And floated. 

She remembered only images, and those only as far as her cricked neck had allowed her gaze to collect. She recalled the crossfire, and the slope. And after that, sewage and tunnel.

Somewhere quite far down the latter line, she regained animation.

Normally, when you regain animation, the first thing you do is sit up. However, this is a bit of difficult to do, when you're floating in a sewer. What resulted from her efforts to sit up was a head-over-heels ducking in filth she didn't want to know the components of. She surfaced, gasping for breath, although the heady airs of the sewer weren't a fairer contrast.

"Éowyn?"

She spun round, waving the gun (which she had been fortunate enough to be tightly clutching when she was frozen) She knew that voice.

"Faramir?"

"Er, yeah." She couldn't see him, but she heard the sloshing noises that meant he must be wading towards her.

"Stop!" she shrieked. "I have a gun!"

"Well," came Faramir's disembodied voice, "so do I."

They stared through the darkness at where they assumed the other was standing, trying to gain purchase on the situation's slippery surface. Then, as one, they lowered their guns.

"Oh, forget it."

"This is stupid, anyway."

Éowyn turned and began sloshing back the way (she assumed) they had come. After some hesitation, Faramir followed her.

After some time, the tunnel narrowed, and the ceiling became lower, so they could only walk one at a time, stooped. Éowyn's brow wrinkled. She didn't remember floating this way. But then, points of view are always so different when they're horizontal.

She shook her head, and went on sloshing determinedly.

"Don't you shoot me in the back," she called back to Faramir.

"Wasn't thinking of it," said Faramir guiltily. "We're on truce, aren't we?"

"Until we get out of these tunnels." Éowyn reached a crossroad – or a cross-tunnel, and stared at the fork. Eventually she selected the tunnel which appeared better lit.

It was the right tunnel. It led back to the great sewer clearing in which the slope had deposited them in the first place.

"Ah!" she breathed, relieved. "Here we are at last. Much brighter, too." She turned around to consult Faramir, and stopped at the odd look on his face. "What?"

He was gazing off in another direction at the wall. In the dim light, she could make out the distinct shape of a bracket, but instead of a torch, it held something blue.

"What's that?" she asked, suspicion creeping into her tone, and began to wade towards it.

Behind her, Faramir raised his gun. "It's my team's flag," he said, and shot her in the back.

He watched her collapse into the sewage, then lowered his gun and trudged after her floating body, lifting her up by the shoulders and towing her over to the dry land of the slope. He dragged her well out of reach of the lapping murk and laid her gun in her hands. Her eyes were full of angry hatred. No guesses for what sort of message they contained.

"I'm very sorry," began Faramir haltingly. "But, you see, this is, well, act-utilitarianism. You know. Benefiting the majority. And I know you're really keen on rule-utilitarianism and all, but the way I was thinking…well…er, well. So. I'm sorry."

She watched him disappear out of sight. Later, she saw his boots walk past her, trailing sludge, his hand clutching the stem of the blue flag. The boots walked up the slope and disappeared.

Éowyn settled back mentally to think thoughts of vengeance.

They'd been throwing things at the ceiling for nearly ten whole minutes.

* * *

Artemis ducked a rebounding ex-tin of sardines, and paused to remark: "What happens if the person who finds us are on your team?" 

"Well, then you're kaput."

"And if they're on my team?"

"Then _I'm_ kaput."

"And if they're on neither of our teams?"

"Then we're both kaput. You _could_ have worked that out yourself, Mr. Intellectual."

Artemis made a small, non-committal noise. "Just checking that you are aware of all eventualities."

Holly held up a hand. "Did I hear something?"

They listened. They clearly heard a familiar voice say, "But Trubs, I heard it, I really did!"

Holly yelled as loudly as her lungs could expand, and began hurling all manner of objects at the cover. Artemis watched her, faintly bemused.

Then light flooded the dank tunnel, nearly blinding both of them. In the middle of it all, Anna Valerious, like some black-tressed guardian angel, stuck her head in. She was wearing a black leather hat and grinning.

"Why, it's Holly!" she exclaimed delightedly. "And…that would be……"

"Great," muttered Artemis, "now _I'm_ kaput."

* * *

Faramir found Enjolras's trio just waking up from their short nap. He waved the flag in front of them. 

Enjolras's eyes focused, unfocused, focused, and zoomed in sharply on the flag. They flared with the flame of realisation, and with a loud whoop he snatched it out of Faramir's hand and marched ecstastically up and down the alley shouting, "_Patria! Patria!_"

"We've got to find the others," said Faramir. "Boromir wandered off, I think, while I was in the sewer. Do you know where Joly and the others are?"

He was interrupted by the loud thump of boots vaulting over the wall. Three more revolutionaires bounced over the wall and joined their leader in singing, "_Patria! Patria!_" Grantaire and Gavroche took up the chant too.

Faramir stared. "Well," he said eventually. "That settles it, then. Can we next find Artemis and my brother and then _get the hell out of here?_"

* * *

"Nice hat," commented Holly. "Where'd you get it from?" 

"Van Helsing," said Anna. Smirking would have been an understatement for her current expression.

"Ah," said Holly.

They reached the entrance of the well. Holly looked around. "Éowyn?"

Éowyn was nowhere in sight. Éomer was, though. He was just waking up.

"I was hanging around in case you or Éowyn came back up," he explained, somewhat groggily. "And then Boromir woke up and shot me."

Holly absorbed this information. "So she fell in."

Éomer nodded. "With Faramir," he added, "though he came out later alone. Saw him walk off that way."

He pointed.

It was a tempting implication. But Éowyn was still down there. The idea of going back into the sewer disgusted her to her very entrails, but she did owe it to her friend.

Holly climbed in gingerly and slid out of sight.

Later on, they heard her yelling for someone else to come down.

Later on, with the combined aid of Anna and Éomer, they managed to drag Éowyn's body out of the sewer.

"Well," said Anna, as she looked down at the frozen Éowyn, with her angry, angry eyes. "What do we do now?"

* * *

The French Revolution was marching down the street. Faramir had got them to hide the blue flag in Grantaire's sock, but they refused to stop singing. If they didn't find the other two soon, someone was going to catch them. 

It must have been pure luck then, that a manhole cover popped open right before his feet, and his brother stuck his head out.

"Artemis is down there," panted Boromir. He was clinging to the edge of the manhole. "Someone shot him. Lucky I'm tall, isn't it?"

He dropped. Soon after, Artemis's body was lifted through the hole. Joly and Courfeyrac dragged it out. Boromir followed, clambering swiftly.

"Good," said Faramir, "good, nine members all present, flag present, good, okay, RUN!"

* * *

Everyone agreed that it was a bit of a dark horse, that the Blue Team should have won. It reduced the other conspiracies to nought, the others' efforts. Several people called it getting shot for nothing. 

It took a long time to clear the maze. It wasn't until well into recess that they located Mulch, Merry and Pippin, still trapped in the securely shut barrels and wailing piteously (in Pippin's case especially) for swift succour.

While the Blue Team relished their chocolate bars, Faramir spotted a golden head moving about the Dining Hall, and sprinted after it. He caught up with Éowyn at the hall door.

"Look, Éowyn, I'm really sorry about the – "

The slap was a roundhouse one. It snapped his head in a tight turn. It was designed to torture skin cells and leave a mark brighter than fire peppers.

Éowyn sniffed, tossed her pale gold hair and stormed out through the double doors.

It occurred to Faramir, as he clutched his aching cheek, that philosophy wasn't exactly the best thing for relationships.

**End of Chapter**

_Next chapter coming…_**Netball and Nastiness**


	23. Netball and Nastiness

**A&A&A Boarding School**

Author's Note: This has taken us long enough, indeed.

But we're very touched, nevertheless, that all of you are still reading, despite the long breaks between updates. It's nice of you.

Of late people keep telling us that we focus too much on the Company of Heroines. Which is, we must unfortunately admit, all too true. For this chapter, we're still in that phase, but later we shall try to steer away. We also got one or two people asking for more Achilles, which is justifiable. He gets his time in writer's limelight soon, come Friday morning.

Lastly, we promise not to abandon this. Although sometimes it grows tedious, it is still too dear to us to simply stop halfway, and we swear to see it through.

**23. Netball and Nastiness**

Elizabeth awoke from the terrible clutches of chloroformed nightmares. She opened her mouth to scream, but something clapped itself over it.

She struggled, until someone whispered urgently, "Elizabeth! It's me."

The hand released her. Elizabeth turned her head – she had found it was the only part of her body that she could turn, because she had been tied up by bandages. "Will?"

Will put a finger to his lips. "Quiet. They're having their lunch break now, but if they hear anything they'll come right back. Are you carrying a knife?"

What sort of odd question was that? "No," said Elizabeth.

Will looked worried. "I need something to cut the bandages. They tied dead knots." He got down on hands and knees. Elizabeth could hear him scrabbling under the bed. Eventually he surfaced holding a disused syringe. She felt the fearful twang of her heartstrings again, at the mere sight of the needle tip.

Will gritted his teeth, and alternately stabbed, slashed and sawed his way through the bandages. When her limbs were released, Elizabeth sat up. The ripped ribbons of bandages fluttered disconsolately about her wrists and ankles.

Will was already working on Legolas. Judging from the amount of bandages on the elf (how many escape attempts had Legolas made? Knowing his temperament, definitely more than one) it would be some time before he managed to entirely free him. Elizabeth set herself to tying bedsheets together, in the most traditional method of high-rise escape.

When Legolas was free, Will joined her at the window. They were about three storeys up. The bedsheet rope was just touching the ground.

Legolas was trying to work some feeling back into his wrists. "Should we trust your knots?"

"Why not?" snapped Elizabeth. "It's our only chance."

"I'd have no problem whatsoever," said Legolas airily. "I'm an elf. It's you two humans I'm worried about. Mortals _are_ so weighty…"

Elizabeth gave him a hard shove towards the window. "Get down it, then, if you're so _weightless_."

Legolas flicked his hair. "Child's play, Miss Swann." He straddled the windowsill, tugged at the rope, and then in a few light, graceful moves, shimmied down it into the garden below.

"Damn him," snapped Elizabeth, and ignoring Will's shocked look, scrambled with considerably less agility onto the windowsill and followed suit.

The rope finally gave when Will was halfway down. Fortunately he landed in a clump of turf, without much disturbance. Legolas was already vaulting over the low wall that separated the hospital garden from the rest of the school.

In the distance, the clock tower struck half past ten.

"Physical Ed," recalled Elizabeth from her mental timetable. "They'll be at the courts. Come on, let's join them."

She took the wall at a run, and just managed to flop over. They waited for Will to scale it, and then fled the ominous façade of the hospital for the freedom of the grounds.

* * *

While Will was trusting his life to Elizabeth's bedsheets, the class was doing their fourth round round the track, under orders of Vinyáya. The more proficient runners had finished, and were cooling down on the green-painted ground of the courts – or, if they were elves or Aragorn, pretending they had just gone for a breezy stroll.

Vinyáya waited till they were all flopped out on the courts before her, in various degrees of exhaustion, before giving them the briefing.

"Get back into your teams of last time, people, you're playing netball today."

Achilles' mouth dropped open. "What? Netball? But that's a girls' game!"

Vinyáya glared at him. "Well, it was going to have been _basketball_, but one of your seniors got into the P.E. storeroom yesterday and smashed the whole set of basketball equipment. It'll take another week to get new ones."

"Smashed it?" said Aragorn, surprised. "_All_ of it? How on earth did he do that?"

"He was pretty mad." Vinyáya walked off towards the ball-tubs and extracted two netballs. "Someone insulted his girlfriend, he lost his temper, things led to more things. When I say lost his temper, I mean _really_ lost it. You know the guy? Fourth-year. Name's Bruce Banner."

"I've seen him around," remarked Achilles to Hector, who was stretched out next to him. "He don't look strong enough to trash up a whole set of basketball equipment."

"I've seen him around too," said Hector quietly, "and you never know."

He looked up as Vinyáya tossed a netball to him, and caught it. She gave him an appraising look. "First match, Green Team versus Orange Team. I'll see you on the court in two minutes."

The teams gathered respectively to confer. "Seven players," explained Harry. "So, who's sitting out?"

They had a short argument, which ended in Frodo and Pippin being reserves this round. They appointed Harry as Team Captain, and began dishing out roles. Mulch, for some odd reason, demanded to be Goal Shooter, and since no one else seemed keen to take it up, Harry let him. Naturally, he pressed Ron into being Goalkeeper. He himself was Goal Attack.

"Captains!" summoned Vinyáya. "Toss for court side."

The captain of the Green was Aragorn. He bet Heads. Well, Tails Never Fails, thought Harry, and sure enough, the coin came up Tails. Harry selected the side of the court the sun was shining on, so they wouldn't get sun in their eyes. In a daze, he walked back to his team.

"We're going to get mowed," moaned Merry.

"Don't say stuff like that," growled Gimli.

"It's true," retorted Merry. "Do the math. How many short players on their team? Zero. How many short people on our team? Four. That's more than half."

"Shut up, Merry," said Harry. He felt light-headed.

They stood in position. Mentally Harry paired the positions up. He was Goal Attack, which meant that facing him was Goal Defence Van Helsing. Bad. He rather pitied Ron, whom Hector was towering over like a sort of maned Everest, and Gimli, whom Achilles was eyeing in a way that simply could not be described with the word 'congenial'.

Hermione stepped into the circle, clutchingthe ballwith a determined expression on her face.

"Here!" yelled Harry. He ducked under Van Helsing's arm, grabbed the ball as it came, and looked around for Mulch. He was being overshadowed by Arwen. Harry gritted his teeth, but decided to risk it.

It turned out to be a rather bad plan. Arwen in one fluid motion fielded the ball and lobbed it to Aragorn. He got it and pivoted, Sam chasing round him desperately. Achilles came running by, and the ball passed between them like lightning that the onlookers saw a mere red flash zip by. The ball went flying to Hector, who spun and faced the net, weighing the odds.

Ron could have described as terrified, except constipated was nearer the mark. He was entirely tense, crouched, waiting for the release of the ball, ready to spring.

Hector raised the ball, aimed, and threw.

Ron leapt.

It was a brave attempt. Gimli later swore that Ron's fingertips did brush the ball. However, it did nothing to alter the ball's flight, and the net swished as the ball fell through it.

Malfoy smirked with triumph. Beside him, Harry mentally thought very bad things.

It went on like that for three more goals. It was one of those irritating games where one team seems to be annoyingly getting the ball _all the bloody time_, which could be their fault, or your team's fault, or your own fault, but is most likely their fault because it's the best way out for blaming someone. It was one of those dreadful games where the moment one of your opponents so much as touch the ball, and immediately you know that _oh heck, they're going to throw it back, and it'll go all the way to their side, and there is no way we're getting it back again till it goes through the net, crap._

Those games are rather hateful, if you're on the losing side.

When time was up, Orange had only scored one goal. This was because Malfoy, in his excitement, stepped out of his designated territory and earned them a chance to get at the ball. In that incident, Andromache mysteriously tripped over Merry, who managed to get the ball to Harry before a Green grabbed it.

Unfortunately, it only happened once.

The game ended seven to one. Vinyáya sent them off to get a water break and ordered the Blue Team and the Gold Team to get ready to play against each other.

The Gold Team were very alarmed, to say the least. Jack went to complain to Vinyáya that they were missing two members, not to mention two of their best players.

"Deal with it," said Vinyáya, rather heartlessly. "You've still got seven members, haven't you? Play without reserves."

"Why _did_ Will have to fall off the stage?" sniffed Haldir.

"You know he couldn't help it," snapped Jack, and tried to think straight.

Playing without reserves meant putting everybody into the game. 'Everybody' included some of the worst players he had ever seen. This contained Cosette Fauchelevent, who fainted if balls flew in her direction, Helen of Sparta, who hadn't yet figured out that catching a ball involved putting at least one hand up in front of you, and Lili Frond, who was known to stop in the middle of a game to check her mascara.

Jack sighed. They had no choice.

"Ah, well," he began. "Lili, much as I am loath to say it, you're playing Centre. As to Goal Shooter……"

"Forgetting me already?"

Everyone turned. There was no mistaking that tone.

Legolas stood before them like some unearthly being come down from heaven to bless them. The wind lifted his locks and rippled them magnificently, and the sun lit them from behind, till they shone like molten gold. His team members stared in awe.

Damn, thought Paris, the fellow really knows how to make entrances.

Will, who was standing off to one side like a last-minute-addition, spoilt the overall effect by coughing. "I'd like to play Goalkeeper, if it's all right with you."

"Good! Bloody brilliant!" exclaimed Jack, extremely relieved. "Legolas, be Goal Shooter, that's a good fellow. Now everything's fine and dandy and we can get this over with, aye?"

The Blue Team was having difficulty making Gavroche a reserve. Artemis was only too happy to sit in the shade and make notes.

"I want to play!" screamed Gavroche. "You know wot, guvnor? This is discriminy-ation against short people!"

"It's for the greater good," said Enjolras sternly.

He and Courfeyrac ferried a struggling Gavroche to the bench and left him there with Artemis.

"Relax," said Artemis calmly, "and just enjoy the shade."

Gavroche glared with all the ferocity of a small angered animal. "Go stuff yer face."

Boromir took his place as Wing Attack, watching Faramir, who was playing Centre, take the ball from Vinyáya and walk towards the Centre's circle. It was odd, but his brother was still strangely lucid, and seemed to be hellbent on maintaining that lucidity at least for the rest of the day, if not forever.

Faramir stepped into the circle, and the game began.

Boromir rushed forward at once, elbowing Haldir out of the way. The ball flew with a whoomph into his chest, but he managed to brace himself in time. Haldir leapt at him, but Faramir was running past the corner of his vision, and he yelled his brother's name and threw, and was rewarded with the sight of the ball in Faramir's hands for a split second, before it went hurtling a long distance, passing over Lili's head and eluding Jack's desperate leap for it, shot into the scoring semicircle and into Enjolras' waiting grasp.

Jack swore colourfully, scrambling from his undignified position sprawled on the court and rushing back just in time to whack the ball as Enjolras threw it at the net. It bounced out. Vinyáya trotted over and gave it to Courfeyrac.

There followed a rather tedious interval, in which Enjolras and Courfeyrac took turns shooting, and the ball either bounced off the hoop, passed over it, or was knocked out by Will or Jack. Eventually, it was ended when Will managed to wrest the ball back and pass it to Lili, who miraculously caught it, and it made its way back to the other end of the court.

Legolas and Paris fought valiantly for the right to score, especially since Helen was watching admiringly from the bench. Eventually Legolas won, and with a fluid grace, threw the ball in.

An admiring sigh rose from Helen's throat. Cosette watched her narrowly.

Triumphantly, Lili (newly restrained from returning to cheerleader antics in her ecstasy) took the ball, stepped into the circle, and pondered where to throw it.

"Here!" yelled Chix despairingly.

"Where?" called Lili. "I can't see you!"

"That's because Faramir is standing in front of you, bloody airhead! Throw! _Just throw!_"

Lili just threw.

The ball bounced off to the side. Faramir chased after it, followed by Chix, Grantaire, Paris, Joly, and eventually Lili herself. Chix, in the struggle, smacked Joly in the eye with his wing. Joly toppled in shock and landed heavily on Grantaire, who fell. The ball, like some vindictive avenging angel, returned and smashed into Grantaire's face. Paris, without any feelings for the opposing and injured party, snatched it, yelled "_Lili!_" and hurled it wildly. Lili glanced up, her mouth a perfect glossy 'O'. The ball came out of the sky at her, a large black circle steadily eclipsing the sun of her world.

"Ow," muttered Artemis. "That looks painful."

Confusion reigned on the court. Chix was attempting to give Lili CPR, despite Jack trying to point out that mouth-to-mouth resucitation really wasn't helping the head wound. The French Revolution was crowded around Grantaire.

"Is he all right?" asked Enjolras with a touch of anxiety."

Grantaire opened his eyes blearily. "Oh, Enjy, capital fellow, lovely to see you, where's the brandy?"

"He is," sniffed Enjolras disdainfully.

"He is _not_!" exclaimed Joly. "_Mon dieu_, his nose is smashed. It's a wonder he can still breathe to talk. And I myself feel that my eye is becoming infected. That wingtip was likely……"

"You have no excuse, Joly, not to play," snapped Enjolras, and added in an undertone, "if only because we don't want Fowl in the game. You know what he's like, man!" Raising his voice, he proclaimed, "Very well, Grantaire's sitting – pardon, _lying_ – out of this game. Gavroche, you're in!"

"Hurrah!" exclaimed Gavroche, bouncing in.

Artemis kept quiet. On the whole, he thought, a body was much better company than the guttersnipe. Same silence, but sans ugly scowl and teethpicking.

The game commenced. Lili was replaced with Cosette, who was looking particularly nervous. Blue scored two goals, if only because Legolas and Paris were constantly fighting to be the one to score, and because their opponent's Centre was equally pathetic as the previous one. Cosette treated the ball like a hand grenade, and had a tendency to not so much throw it at someone as to hurl it away from herself indiscriminately, like a filthy handkerchief, often accompanying the action with a small shriek. This gave Faramir countless chances to pick it up as it rolled by and pass it to his team.

The next casualty occurred when Courfeyrac, off the top of his head, threw the ball straight at the iron pole on which the net was hoisted. Jack and Will both dove for it simultaneously. Jack hit Will and stumbled. Will hit the pole, unfortunately with his head, and crumpled with a terrible crunching sound.

The ball, with no obstruction in its path, merely bounced off the pole and rebounded back into a mystified Courfeyrac's hands.

Jack crawled on his elbows towards Will, who was once more out cold.

_Oh no_, he thought, and cursed mentally. _Helen._

Things went very badly after that.

Despite the fact that Gold had in Legolas a very skilled shooter, most of the time the ball barely made it past Centre. Cosette could barely keep up with Faramir. Helen, as Goalkeeper, had no idea how to mark someone. Nor could she run. Jack, as he tried to keep an eye on both Courfeyrac and Enjolras at once, thought _Oh hell, I can only mark one person at a time, and he's got the bleedin' ball again and it's going to go in and oh BLAST……_

Blue Team won eventually, five to three. Jack cursed out loud at them, and was rewarded with a stream of very vulgar argot from Gavroche. Eventually Vinyáya had to threaten to slap them if they didn't shut up.

Blue, however, was unable to get any rest. Vinyáya demanded that they play Red after a break of a few minutes.

"How does she expect us to handle _them_?" gasped Joly. "Feuilly, is my eye swelling? Vein burst? Anything?"

"Fear not, comrades," said Enjolras gravely, "we shall conquer."

Boromir snorted. He was, if slightly egocentric, at least more practical.

They made a few strategic changes: ie. Gavroche was too short to be a good wing defender, so they moved him to Centre, since then he would be against Holly, who was around his eye level at least. Gavroche went along with this, since he liked being the one to start the whole game.

"I'd like to be Goalkeeper this round," said Faramir quietly.

"Why?" inquired Boromir. He glanced over to the Red team, and saw Éowyn putting on the goal shooter's bib. "Oh."

Éowyn shot Faramir a dirty look, and edged off to the other side of her semicircle, ignoring him completely. Faramir said nothing, and kept his eyes on the middle of the court, where Holly was about to step into the circle. Gavroche was dancing up and down in front of her, making hideous faces.

Holly gave him a look of pure flame, stepped into the circle and hurled the ball over his head.

Elizabeth, who had returned to Red as Wing Attack, leapt up and caught it despite Feuilly flailing at her. The Red played very fast; it was almost as if they knew what each other was thinking. Elizabeth threw into an empty space on the court, and just as everyone was expecting the ball to bounce out, Anna dived in and grabbed it just before it hit the ground. With one arm she lobbed it to Éowyn, who caught it and pivoted to take aim at the net. This was all in the space of four seconds.

Faramir blocked her, fixed her eyes with his own, hoping desperately for some sort of distraction to her aim.

She looked back, looked through his eyes and through his head, raised her chin. He saw the clenched jaw, and the coldness. Then she took her gaze away, directed it at the net, drew her arms back and let fly.

It was a perfect shot. The ball arced through the air and fell directly above the net, plunging in and through. Elizabeth, in the background, let out a scream of delight.

Boromir thought Faramir was looking almost too crestfallen for a first missed goal, but busied himself with marking Trouble and watching the ball.

Play continued. Gavroche bounced the ball to Boromir, who turned to bounce it to Courfeyrac. However, Holly tackled the ball as it was about to rebound off the ground and rolled away from the pursuing Gavroche. She leapt onto her feet and tossed the ball to Anna.

The ball travelled back and forth about the court. Faramir succeeded in intercepting the pass between Anna and Éowyn, and threw it back to his side, but it had barely been in their possession for a couple of seconds before Elizabeth wrested it from Gavroche and passed it to Holly.

Eventually it ended up with Enjolras, who shot. It rebounded off the hoop and Marius tried to get it, but Enjolras retrieved it and shot again. This time it went in.

Artemis looked up from his notebook to watch the game for a while, decided that there was no chance of his joining in any time soon, breathed a sigh of relief and went back to whatever he was working on.

The Reds looked disappointed, but brightened up when the ball was handed back to Holly. Holly took it and stood outside the circle.

Gavroche, who was dancing up and down between her and Trouble, called out something vulgar to her in argot.

It might have been that he had thought she wouldn't understand it, since very few people spoke true French gutter argot. He had forgotten the natural linguistic gift of fairies. Holly got it perfectly.

On the whole, it looked like an accident. It looked like she had been aiming for Trouble, and that Gavroche had just leapt into the way.

Whatever it was, the ball concussed Gavroche so hard that he was laid out unconscious beside Grantaire, an ice-pack on his forehead. Artemis eyed Holly skeptically. She was being hysterical. Which was not normal. And so he was quite aware of the true facts of the incident, but since Vinyáya had decided that it had been purely an accident, he did not feel like arguing with her. He was more concerned about the fact that Boromir had now hauled him up, pushed him out into the middle of the court, shoved the ball into his hand and with a certain lack of friendly encouragement, told him gruffly to step into the circle and throw the ball.

_Oh, dear me,_ thought Artemis, as he stared at Holly from across the circle, her tears and hysterics gone, the wicked, daring grin back in place. _This isn't very good._

Holly cracked that grin at him. "C'mon, Mud Boy. Don't keep us waiting."

Artemis threw. Even before it had landed he knew it was a bad throw. Parabola and missile trajectory and all that. The ball arced neatly into Holly's trap of an outstretched arm.

Boromir clapped a hand over his eyes in misery.

Blue lost quite badly after that, since despite its strong attacking side, it started to fall apart from a holed defence. Every time Artemis stepped into the circle he was resolutely concentrating on parabola trajectory, but every time he looked into the derisive hazel eyes of his opponent he was unspeakably unnerved. Elizabeth, with a whole day and a half of anger cooped up inside her from her hospital imprisonment, played so furiously that countless times she forced Feuilly to back off.

Boromir was musing over whether it was better to have a deranged but functional Faramir, or a rational but lovesick Faramir. The latter could not goal-keep for nuts. And if he was actually letting her shoot past him on purpose, then Boromir fully intended to give him hell later. Right now, though, Boromir decided to focus on hating Artemis for being inept.

The Red team won, seven to four. "Good game," said Éowyn tersely, shook Faramir's hand by the fingers and then stalked off to rejoin her team.

Boromir saw the exchange, and came up. "Faramir, exactly _why_ are you – "

"Shut up," said Faramir abruptly, left his brother staring and went around the court to where the water coolers were, so he could pour water over his head.

And so they reached the final match between Red and Green. It promised to be, if not spectacular, then at least violent. This was no longer about the chocolate. This was about team honour and a vehement urge to feel superior. There went all notions of 'friendly match'.

Both teams sized each other up. Éowyn cautioned her team not to be _too_ violent, in the event of overstepping the rules. Aragorn cautioned his team, especially Achilles, not to underestimate their opponents, even if more than half of them were female, because he had seen them in action and they were painful.

"I back that," muttered Van Helsing, flicking a dust mote off the hat brim.

"He's playing Goal Defense," observed Éowyn in an aside to Anna. "If you don't want to play him, it's okay…"

"No," said Anna. She flicked her black wavy tresses and took the Goal Attack bib from the pile. "I _want_ to play Van Helsing."

She strode over the green court and took up position next to her archenemy. "I see you got your hat back," she remarked casually.

Casual remarks often lead to casualties. "No thanks to you," replied Van Helsing impassively. "Nice hair. How do you get that style, use the microwave?"

Vinyáya blew her whistle, dashing over frantically. "_No fighting on court! No fighting on court! If you do that again I swear I will send both of you off, and the game hasn't even started, damnit!"_

Éowyn sighed. All this was going against her better judgment.

In the middle of the court, Holly faced down – or faced up – Draco Malfoy. She remembered Éowyn's advice. _He's larger than you – but then, so's his ego._

Malfoy smirked at her. An opposing Centre half his height wouldn't pose much of a challenge. He stepped into the circle and threw a lazy bounce-pass.

He hadn't expected Holly to have a hitherto undiscovered talent for jumping up, catching the ball in mid-air, curling into a ball around it so that when she hit the ground she rolled away back into the attack territory of her own team, out of reach of the Green attackers.

Vinyáya was suitably impressed, and decided not to count that as 'travelling'.

"He forgot what I said!" yelled Aragorn, pelting angrily after Trouble. "He forgot what I said, and look what happened!"

"Fine, fine, it's not like _I_ forgot," muttered Achilles, trailing after them.

The ball was in Red's possession, and moving quite happily across the court to the net. Elizabeth, keeping well ahead of Andromache, leapt up and caught the ball, and then passed it in a long-distance throw to Éowyn, who spun and faced the net. _She's got it_, thought Holly, cheering inwardly, _it's a definite goal……_

Éowyn shot. _Yes! _thought Holly, _it's going to go in……_

……when suddenly the ball was plucked from mid-air, clasped by a pair of delicate, long-fingered hands. Arwen flicked her hair out of her eyes, pivoted, and smiled graciously at Éowyn.

Underestimation could work for both sides. The shadows flashed against the sun. Éowyn daughter of Éomund, the most talented goal shooter the Reds had ever seen, had found her match in goalkeepers.

Arwen turned abruptly and tossed the ball to Andromache, who had been hovering on the borders of the circle, and the game was back on.

The ball practically flew back across the court, till it was back in the Green's semicircle. Hector aimed at the net, considered angle and windspeed velocity, and turned away. "I can't hit it! You try!" he exclaimed, and threw to Achilles.

"What?" said Achilles.

Éomer grabbed desperately at the last chance to intercept the ball. He lunged perhaps a second before Achilles did, and so managed to seize it, even though it resulted in him tripping, with Achilles landing on him a moment later, very painfully. The ball rolled out of his grasp and trundled amiably out of the semicircle.

Trouble walked over and picked it up.

From there, the ball went the other way. It travelled back through the Reds, until through an uncertain throw by Elizabeth, it flew towards both Anna and Van Helsing. Both of them saw it coming, and grabbed the ball.

Anna experienced a moment of déja vu, of grappling with Van Helsing over something neither of them would give up.

She braced her feet and pulled hard. Van Helsing's fingers barely loosened, and he yanked back. She was nearly yanked off her feet, and this time chose to fall over backwards, trusting in her body weight. He saw that coming, and fell too, throwing himself sideways. His shoulder screamed as it crashed against the hard court, but he was heavier than her and the ball fell with him. Nevertheless, she refused to let go, and they rolled about on the court, knuckles white and fingers gripping vise-like, until by degrees they were back on their feet. Anna stepped on his foot. Van Helsing bit back a groan, and stepped on hers. Anna could not resist a small gasp of pain, but she valiantly clung on. They struggled, swore, struggled some more, and the ball remained in equilibrium.

Vinyáya let this go on until nearly half a minute had passed. Then she blew her whistle, forcibly removed the ball from both their clutches, and returned it to Centre. She said this was a special case.

Holly threw the ball under Malfoy's outstretched arm, where Anna, skidding, caught it, and hurled it to Elizabeth, who hurled it to Holly, who hurled it to Elizabeth, who hurled it to Anna, who shot at the net and was again rebuffed by Arwen, who threw the ball to Van Helsing, who threw it to Aragorn, who threw it to Achilles, who shot and missed.

The ball landed out, was declared Red's possession, and it all started again.

Vinyáya checked her watch. They had only half a minute left for play, and yet neither of the teams had so much as scored. Not even one goal.

Holly wiped sweat from one eye. Perspiration dripped from every auburn spike on her head. The frustration was building inside her, the tension stretching her like bubblegum on a rack, a hard hot angry ball inside her chest, churning, screaming to be let out.

She intercepted a throw meant for Malfoy and directed it at Elizabeth, who missed and let Andromache catch it. Andromache threw it to Van Helsing. Van Helsing turned to look for a fellow Green, but by now Elizabeth had caught up with Andromache, and she and Anna were jostling her out of sight. Holly was hovering determinedly on the edges of his sightline, but Malfoy didn't seem to be paying attention. Too risky. Aragorn was too far off.

Van Helsing sighed, turned and threw the ball to Arwen.

She hadn't been expecting that. He saw her mouth open in perfect shock as it arced towards her, saw Éowyn's hands reach out and snatch it from its path. The Red goal shooter turned, golden hair flying out in a swathe of light, took aim and let fly.

The ball scythed between Arwen's outreached arms, continued upwards, and just barely touched the hoop.

It sat there, balanced on the hoop, in perfect equilibrium, not falling in, not falling out. Everyone on the court and off it watched with bated breath.

Slowly the ball began to circle. Painstakingly slowly, it made the round of the hoop without showing any sign of inclining to either side. It paused, and then rolled round the hoop ponderously one more time. And one more time. And one more time.

Arwen and Éowyn were frozen. Only their eyes moved, round and round as the ball navigated carefully the narrow tightrope of the net hoop. Neither of them dared so much as touch the pole, in the event of disturbing the perfect balance of this miracle of physics.

Across the court, people prayed. Fervently, inwardly, muttering out loud, praying for the ball to go in/ for the ball to go out/ for the whole thing to be over and done with.

The ball trundled to a stop in the exact same spot where it had first landed, balancing on the metal rim with a terrifying ease.

Then it fell.

There was only a small whoosh and the lightest swish of the net, to signify the direction in which it had fallen.

"Time's up," announced Vinyáya.

The Red team exploded with victory. Holly left off marking a crestfallen Malfoy, grabbed Trouble by the wrists and danced around, until Elizabeth came running up and screamed at them in ectsasy. Marius got a shock when Éomer came up and clapped him on the back, and then got even more of a shock after that when Eponine, flagrantly defying Cosette's death-glare, rushed over, threw her arms around his neck and kissed him on the cheek. Anna was having the time of her life not saying anything to Van Helsing, just smirking.

Éowyn shook hands with Arwen. "Good game," she said. "You're the best I've played against so far."

"And vice versa," replied Arwen. She smiled graciously.

Éowyn watched her walk off the court, saw Aragorn come up by her side and put an arm around her shoulders, saw him bow his head to ask a question, saw her shake her head assuringly and smile up at him, one of those dazzlingly beautiful smiles.

She heard herself sigh out loud, shrugged off the feeling and went to join her team in the celebrations.

**End of Chapter**

_Next chapter coming…_**Sorcery and Spellcheck**


	24. Sorcery and Spellcheck

**A&A&A Boarding School**

Author's Note: We know that one of our most popular chapters was the Magic class one, and over here we try to do a sequel justice, although we fear it might come short of the previous one.

We're glad that people like netball, even if it's not a very well-known game, and that the Company of Heroines still have their own set of fans among our readers.

We love holidays.

**24. Sorcery and Spellcheck**

The class went through Defence Skills very half-heartedly, since this was the third physically demanding lesson of the morning already. Butler was not pleased, but somehow could not seem to sufficiently threaten them into putting in effort. Even Anna and Van Helsing were doing more circling than actual taekwondo, and Legolas for once didn't seem interested in knocking Paris flat.

Boromir gave Éomer an unenthusiastic punch in the shoulder. Éomer wandered backwards, then slouched over and returned it with equal fervour.

"I think my brother has a problem with your sister," remarked Boromir to his opponent, in between apathetic blows.

Éomer looked in the direction of Faramir, who was leaning against a pillar of the gym and staring morosely into the distance.

"I think so too," he agreed, and leaned away from Boromir's extended fist. Boromir retracted it and raised his foot wearily. Éomer stepped over it.

"I was about to say that," concurred Boromir, shifting his weight and receiving a lethargic kick from Éomer. He overbalanced, and sank, grateful for an excuse to sit down. Shouldn't we do something about?"

Éomer checked that Butler was over the other end of the gym, reprimanding Joly for whining that taekwondo made him feverish, and sat down unobtrusively as well. "So, what do you suggest it?"

Boromir opened his mouth, but just then Butler spotted them slacking and strode over. "Later," mouthed Boromir, feigning a high kick to Éomer's ear.

* * *

Most people looked forward to Magic, some if only because it was a classroom subject.

"Today," announced Professor McGonagall, striding down the aisles between the desks, rapping sharply on tabletops and causing their owners to jump, blush and shut up instantaneously, "we will be doing simple and complex Levitation. I expect all of you to have mastered the spell for all objects weighing lower than a kilogram by the end of the lesson. Students with no magic, your study today will be the evolutionist theory of the magic carpet, encyclopaedias in the cupboard over there. Reflections to be handed in by the end of the class."

Frodo played with a pencil idly and eyed the empty space beside him. He wondered if Sam was having fun.

McGonagall reached the front. "Magic students, you will find a feather on your desks. Wands out, please, wizardry students – _Frond, stop painting your nails in my class _– and observe. _Wingardium leviosa_!"

The feather rose into midair. Harry heard Hermione's voice by his ear, as he had expected, "Oh, _that's_ easy, I mean, _Ron_ knows how to do that."

"Oi," muttered Ron indignantly from hisside.

"Complex levitation, however," went on McGonagall, as if she heard, "is a different matter. A series of different charms is needed to move an airborne object through the air, often at different speeds. With the right balance of spells you can move the object as and where you wish, which is the principle used in the manufacture of broomsticks. You will find a list of the necessary spells in your desk drawers. Work your way through them, starting now."

The classroom was filled with people chanting spells, and waving wands if they were wizardry students. McGonagall went to help the others with Holy or Fairy magic, who did not have a defined way of raising feathers. The non-magic students tried to ignore them and concentrate on magic carpet studies, which wasn't easy when accompanied with constant twinges of jealousy.

It took Hermione fifteen minutes to attempt, achieve and memorise all the spells in the Levitation syllabus, and then move on to heavier things, like a whole bunch of Math textbooks with her pencilcase on top of them.

Artemis watched an eraser rub its way lazily overhead. He blinked, and it fell neatly back into the groove on his desk. He turned his attention to where Holly was heatedly flicking blue sparks at her feather, which was resolutely not moving.

A rolled-up slip of paper winged its way over to her eye level, where it proceeded to unroll in mid-air. It said, _Patience is a virture. Serenity is the key to achievement. _

Holly glared furiously at it. The paper caught fire and burned to death. Ash dropped onto her feather.

"I was only trying to help," said Artemis. "It really is quite easy, you know."

"Stuff it, Mud Boy," growled Holly. Sparks flared from her fingertips, struck the feather like blue lightning bolts, and jolted it straight up, where it crashed against the ceiling and lost several fibres. Holly gave him a triumphant glare, while mentally remarking, _He's out of character. Again._

_You're out of character. Again_, said a voice in Artemis' head.

_Really._

_Yeah, I can tell._

_Can you now. Wait, did I just think 'yeah'?_

_Yeah, you did, man. _

_Goodness, what did I just think?_

_Me. You thought me._

_Who're you?_

_I'm you._

_You can't be. _This_ is me. The bit that's thinking _this.

_Well bugger that bit, it's always been boring._

_Don't call me boring._

_No, I'm talking about me here. _

_What? Stop trying to confuse me!_

_Oh, is the great Artemis Fowl confused? That's quite an achievement!_

_Shut up! Oh, no…_

_And you just said shut up! I can see I'm having some influence here._

_Stop that. Who _are _you?_

Artemis thought of an evil grin inside his head. _You can call me, _said this little self, _the Voice._

"Fowl, are you slacking off?" came Professor McGonagall's sharp voice, cutting through his mental conversation.

Artemis shook himself back to his senses – at least, he hoped they were _his_. "No, Professor, just concentrating," he replied with what he hoped was perfect calm.

When she was gone, Artemis slid out of his seat and went over to where the encyclopaedias were kept. He ignored Will, who was staring at him, picked up one and staggered with it back to his desk. Éowyn gave him a funny look. Artemis, not seeing her, opened it with some difficulty and flipped through the pages till he came to _P_.

_POSSESSION.:_ _When an evil spirit takes control of a person or of a person's actions, the individual is said to be possessed. A possessed person may go into convulsions, have extraordinary strength, declaim curses, verses or song that the individual has not learnt previous to possession, or otherwise act in ways distracted from his or her normal personality. Possession presupposes the existence of the Devil as an evil force in the lives of people ……_

_Oh no_, thought Artemis.

_Haha_.

_Quiet, you._

* * *

Elizabeth folded a paper crane and sat it on her desk.

"_Wingardium leviosa_," she declared. The crane rose.

Elizabeth smiled with satisfaction, let it fall, and then checked her list for the Complex Levitation spells.

When she next looked, the crane was gone.

With a growing sense of horror, Elizabeth raised her head. The crane was weaving drunkenly and steadily upwards towards the ceiling, corresponding to the movement of the swaying tip of Jack's wand. Jack had never had any problem with levitation. It was one of his unholy gifts.

"J – " began Elizabeth angrily.

The crane slewed off course, into the whirring blades of the ceiling fan.

Will ducked as shreds of origami paper cascaded over his encyclopaedia.

"Blast," said Jack. He felt Elizabeth's glare on his back and turned slowly, spreading his arms in self-defence. "Sorry, lass, couldn't resist……"

Elizabeth's mouth twisted in that way it had done when her deskmates had nominated her for Christine. She flicked her wand viciously, causing the pirate hat, which had been perched on the edge of Jack's desk, to fly up and towards the open window.

Jack yelled in horror and brandished his own wand. The hat soared back towards them.

Elizabeth, livid, jerked her wand. The hat halted and hovered overhead, as two invisible forces of magic tugged at it. Finally Jack succeeded in breaking Elizabeth's magical hold over it, and snatched at it as it plunged.

Elizabeth, mouth still set, began tearing pieces out of her jotter book and making more cranes. Jack and Will watched in mounting trepidation.

Once Elizabeth had a fleet of twelve cranes, she jabbed her wand at them and muttered various spells from Complex Levitation. After several failed attempts, all the cranes rose into the air at once and zoomed towards Jack, who ducked in time. The cranes passed over his head, did a rather impressive double-back in mid-air, and zoomed back. One of them clipped Jack on the ear and gave him a paper cut.

Jack frowned. Well, two could play at that game. He violently ripped a page out of his own jotter book and began to make reinforcements. Not that he bothered with style and shape. Jack liked cannonballs, and so his army consisted solely of plum-pit-sized scrunched-up balls of paper.

When the cranes next attacked, they were confronted with a volley of paper cannonballs. Several of the cranes went down, spiralling out of commission.

Elizabeth's eyes flamed. Another page, another fleet of cranes. Jack, not to be put down, began to crush more paper balls, this time into bigger missiles. Will, who didn't like any of this, lowered his head carefully to his desktop in the interest of self-preservation, and viewed the expanding of both cellulose armies with wariness, over the top of his encyclopaedia.

When the battle started again, it was even more furious. Balls crashed into cranes, smashing them down into the gap between the chairs; cranes clustered around balls, bashing at them blindly with their heads; both paper creatures collided, plummeting down into the abyss of the classroom floor.

The row in front of them was alerted of the paper war when a cannonball thudded into the back of Eponine's neck. She looked back sharply, and her eyes widened when she saw the mid-air strife.

Eponine turned back to her seat and ripped up a page. In seconds, a paper plane ploughed through Jack's militia of flying paper balls and sent them spraying back at Jack himself.

Jack aimed a particularly large cannonball at the plane, which missed because Eponine jerked her wand up at the last second. The plane's nose rose, and the ball passed under it. The plane went on to succour more falling cranes.

With the aid of Eponine, the cranes began to beat back the cannonballs. Jack's wand-tip was a blur of panic. The plane, loaded with paper weights and escorted by cranes, bore down onto the crux of Jack's army……

One of the flying cannonballs that resulted from the collision bounced off the brim of McGonagall's hat.

Will, who had been quite certain the silence meant it was all over, took in the situation and ducked again.

"Sparrow," said McGonagall haughtily in the ensuing lull. "You are becoming quite a distraction in my class."

"Professor!" protested Jack. "They were attackin' me, I swear, it ain't fair to put all the blame on poor me……"

"Sparrow!" Professor McGonagall's voice cut in severely over Jack's tirade. "You will write me that same reflection that the non-magic students are doing now! You will hand it to me first thing tomorrow morning! It will be at least five sides of parchment! And your handwriting will be no larger than size twelve!"

Jack stopped short, aghast.

"The next disturbance," went on McGonagall in a quieter but even more menacing tone, "will mean _detention_. For _everybody_ involved. I'm aware that the two of you," this to a cowering Elizabeth and Eponine, "have _records_. You don't, Sparrow, and that surprises me, but I hope your own good sense will keep it that way. Am I clear?"

"Yes'm."

"Yes, Professor."

"Savvy."

Jack waited for McGonagall to move over to where Briseis was trying to summon the feather into the air, before ignoring Elizabeth's warning glare and leaning over to Will. "Hey, mate. Could I borrow your essay?"

Before the lunch bell had yet to finish ringing, the stairways flooded with students eager to get as far away from their lessons/classrooms/teachers/all three as possible, and it was high tide in the Dining Hall. Lunch was collected from the omnipresent Lady Galadriel, and the students began to assuage their hunger.

Lunch today was rather pleasant, since it was Elvish cooking. Galadriel was good at Elvish cooking, and hence the food tasted, if not normal, at least as if it should be.

Achilles found himself seated next to Hector, with Aragorn and Arwen opposite him. He had by now noticed that Aragorn sat with different people each mealtime, so that by now he knew almost the whole class, and the whole class knew about him. If they had had an election for class committee, Aragorn would have run for Chair and won. When people looked at him now, they saw a leader.

Achilles had also noticed that no matter who he sat with, Arwen followed him. If the election had been for Screen Couple of the School, they would have run for it and won too. When people looked at them, they saw a couple.

He didn't really mind. He rather liked Aragorn, as a matter of fact. There was a fellow he could trust to watch his back in a fight. And Arwen was a looker, sure thing. He thought of Briseis and sighed.

"What?" said Hector, who had heard the sigh. "Something's wrong?"

Achilles opened his mouth to explicate, but then realise who he was talking to. It was a pity, he reflected, avoiding Hector's gaze, that Briseis's cousin happened to be one of the few people he would think twice before challenging.

"Nothing," he said, and bent over his plate.

Éowyn waited for Eponine to finish depositing their crockery at the collection point, and then the Company of Heroines set off for Math class.

They had reached the doors of the Dining Hall when Éomer accosted them. He seemed to be having trouble breathing from trying not to laugh out loud.

"What?" asked Éowyn suspiciously.

"You've got to see this," gasped Éomer, grabbed her by the arm and dragged her out into the hallway and to the right.

When they stopped, she found herself confronted with a large placard, on which was scrawled her name.

ÉOWYN DAUGHTER OF ÉOMUND.

Perplexed, she followed a set of small arrows down the corridor to the next placard.

MY BROTHER IS AN IDIOT.

Still too shocked to do anything but read on, she walked further down to the third.

CALL HIM.

Éowyn stared at the last placard, and then turned to where Faramir had just emerged from the stairwell, with an equally stunned and horrified expression on his face, which was gaining a complexion that could have made a tomato feel inadequate.

Faramir opened his mouth once or twice, like a goldfish, then muttered something like "_I'll kill him_" under his breath, and fled up the stairs three steps at a time.

The rest of the Company and Éomer wandered up to where Éowyn was still standing shellshocked. Elizabeth waved a hand tentatively in front of her face.

"Would you like us to kill Boromir now?" asked Anna uncertainly.

There was a pause.

Then Éowyn said, in a faraway voice, "No, I think Faramir will get there before us."

And without another word she set off in the direction of the Mathematics classroom.

**End of Chapter**

_Next chapter coming…_**Protractors and Pirouettes**


	25. Protractors and Pirouettes

**A&A&A Boarding School**

Author's Note: We present to you a 25th chapter that isn't so much school-based as inspired by Lydia's experiences with her drama society.

The sisters apologise if they have not got their arithmetic set theory correct. It was still too good a joke to waste.

The quote Holly makes about dance being a beautiful art form comes from Lydia's senior Kavya Akash, whose dancing experiences resembles Holly's quite.

Rukuelle's still very upset about what happened to the fly in the first part of this chapter. Lydia can't fathom why she cares about the fates of plot devices.

**25. Protractors and Pirouettes**

It was hot, lazy weather, the sort that comes in the same package as stay-back afternoon lessons – and flies.

This particular fly that came with the weather had entered the classroom through an open window, seeking to escape the heat – although it didn't find much of a temperature drop inside. It alighted upon Ron's nose for a stopover, but hastily embarked upon the air once more when its unsuspecting perch sneezed.

The fly circled Hermione's head once – she barely noticed, so intent upon her notes was she – and headed for the board upon which Valjean was attempting to demonstrate the concept of numerical sets to the class. It landed neatly in the centre of a six, and then crawled along between the bars of an equal to settle in the middle of the null sign.

"…and so if Set A intersects Set B and both sets have nothing in common, then we say that their intersection is _null_, because there is no relation whatsoever between the two sets……"

"Like how the set of intelligent people in this class intersecting with the set of girls in this class produces _null_?" said Artemis softly.

It was a supremely suicidal thing to say, especially since he was seated in the vicinity of at least four members of the latter set that weren't going to take a comment like that lying down. Hermione gave an outraged gasp and made as if to stand up in objection, but Holly was nearer and able to exact her own revenge faster. The fly, which was resting on Artemis' textbook, hurriedly took off to avoid his flailing arm as Artemis' shoulders jerked suddenly, his face creasing up in pain.

Holly looked prepared to twist harder, but M. Valjean had been forewarned of this sort of thing happening by the experiences of his colleagues, and hastily intervened before it could get any worse. "Mlle. Short, you will release M. Fowl's wrist _at once_, do you hear? M. Fowl, you will do well to watch that tongue of yours. And now this is settled, might I go back to my instruction?"

The fly left that scene behind it as it swooped round a corner of a desk, barely escaped being swatted at by Van Helsing's hat, flew on and settled on Joly's eraser. Joly eyed it suspiciously. "Feuilly, do you think it's a typhoid-carrier?"

Feuilly grunted irritably and used the paper fan he had folded in his boredom to smack the fly, which again escaped, caused Legolas some annoyance by buzzing in the vicinity of his sensitively-tipped ears, and then darted off to land in the groove on Achilles' desk, blissfully ignorant of the fact that above it, Achilles was aiming a protractor, ready to smack down.

Briseis looked up, and being imbued with that unfortunate passion some people have for small and apparently defenceless creatures, exclaimed, "Don't, that's cruel!"

Achilles looked up at the sound of her voice, and the fly, still unaware of the sticky demise it had just eluded, took off again, leaving behind a philosophical argument of kindness-to-small-creatures vs. it-was-sitting-on-my-bloody-desk.

The fly made its rounds of the class, darting lithely, hovering, alighting for seconds on a desk edge or a pencil or a worksheet. It narrowly evaded being stuck through by a geometry compass casually thrown by Aragorn – as it was, it lost a leg. It settled on Grub's desk for a while to recuperate – the desk's owner was asleep as per normal in a Math class – and then took off again when Trouble noticed it and flicked idly at it.

The fly swooped low between Malfoy and Lili, skimmed through Frodo's curls, and then finally found what it wanted: the sandwich which Mulch was consuming illegally under the table. It settled in happily between the watercress and the bacon.

Mulch saw the fly as an addition of extra protein, picked it out of the sandwich, held the struggling insect up between his stubby fingers, and then ate it whole.

"Thank you, class, that will be all," said Valjean at the front. "_Au revoir_. Have a nice day."

* * *

In normal circumstances, students looked forward to the end of the school day. Not this lot.

"…front, back, side-ways-jump-and-turrrrrn……._no_!"

Holly nearly overbalanced and clutched at a prop desk just in time. Some people weren't meant for ballet, and she was quite sure she was one of them.

She struggled to regain her balance and was confronted by the sight of Galadriel bearing down upon her. Holly blanched and nearly collapsed again.

"I know not how many times I have said it," began Galadriel in musical exasperation, "but the third pirouette is _to the right_. My dear Holly, you have been pirouetting _to the left_ for the whole of this rehearsal. And you are in the front row, so it looks ghastly."

Not for the first time, Holly wished she hadn't been a personification of her surname. Fortunate people like Anna and Éowyn were tall enough to dance in the back row and so escape scrutiny.

Galadriel bent so that she was at the level of Holly's sightline, which meant a lot of bending.

"Holly, I wish you would put some effort into this. Try and _like_ dance – it's a beautiful art form."

Yeah, thought Holly, a beautiful art form – for people who can do it.

Galadriel frowned. "I heard that," she said reprovingly. "Some self-esteem is in order, my dear. Now, we'll start from the second bar……"

Holly pulled herself together and decided to make an effort this time, if only so they could end this torment. Gods, she hated this production.

"…front, back, side-ways-jump-and-_turrrn_—yes! Very good, Holly! Very good, all of you! Now, you may have a break of fifteen minutes. After that, I intend to have one full run – _scriptless_."

There were muffled gasps from amidst the cast, and some flurry as Jack seized Andromache's script – he'd lost his again – and began to desperately try to commit his multitude of lines to memory. The ballet girls scattered, glad to be off the stage at long last.

"I really don't want to think about performance night," moaned Éowyn, as she waited her turn in the queue for the water cooler.

"It'll be a nightmare," agreed Holly. "I'll wake up screaming nights long after this is over."

Fifteen minutes later, the class filed back onto stage as if drawn unwillingly by the invisible magnet of Galadriel's mind. Their director was in top form today. "From the top, my dears! Places this minute! This minute, I say! Are we all ready? Lovely – three, two, one, _lights_!"

Galadriel swept offstage to join Celeborn, who had drawn up two armchairs out of nowhere. She lowered herself onto the one he was proffering dutifully, her attention all on the brightening stage.

The orchestra began. It was technically an orchestra, although it sounded truthfully like Artemis playing with some back-up percussion. The curtains cranked open, screeching as they went. Galadriel made a mental note to get Celeborn to oil the reels later.

She watched the auction scene without comment. It went past without any major glitches, if only because most of the people in that scene had so few lines, it was quite easy to remember them.

She breathed a sigh of relief when the chandelier rose without major incident. Admittedly one of the crystal chains seemed to have come loose, and was drooping in an unsightly manner, but that was a technical flaw that could be easily fixed, she consoled herself.

The stagehands, though, were very lax about timing during the scene change, and she made another mental note to reprimand them later.

Then came the Hannibal scene, in which all the accidents seemed to cascade at once.

The bleeding severed head, which Elizabeth, acting Carlotta, acting Queen Elissa of Carthage, was carrying to Hannibal, detached itself from its crepe-paper hair and rolled across the stage, where Haldir, carrying a ladder in the background, stepped on it, staggered for some time, and then finally tripped, dropping the ladder in the paths of Merry and Pippin just as they came onstage. Both hobbits shrieked.

A pause ensued. Everyone turned with bated breath to face Galadriel.

The Lady's expression was unreadable. She raised a white hand delicately and waved it dismissively. "Carry on."

The company as one released a long-held breath, and the scriptless run continued. However, the previous accidents had been but a precursor to the rest of the rehearsal.

The backdrop that had been supposed to crash down halfway through Elizabeth's aria collapsed too early, which led to Merry's line being cut off: "I have experienced all your greatest roles, Sig – _aaaaargh_!"

Arwen sang beautifully, but the magic was spoiled by the fact that halfway through her gala night performance, her tiara fell off. Backstage, Andromache – who had been responsible for that part of the costume – clapped a hand to a forehead and said a word no noblewoman of good breeding should know. Unfortunately, she said it too loudly. Across the stage, Achilles, who was pretending to be an audience member, suddenly guffawed in the viewing box. It earned him a sharp glare from Galadriel, which silenced him.

Jack had still not succeeded in memorising all his lines in their entirety. As a result, he repeatedly forgot his lines, sang out of tune, wandered around disconsolately when it wasn't his line and did not turn up on cue. Hence, both Phantom of the Opera and Music of the Night were riddled with errors and terrible to hear.

The cast carried on bravely through Prima Donna, valiantly ignoring the moment when Elizabeth climbed onto the managers' desk to deliver her closing lines and fell off with a shriek. During the Dance of the Country Nymphs, Holly, disregarding all previous admonishments, jumped sideways and executed a pirouette to the left.

The final straw was when the chandelier, despite Jack's desperate repetitions of his last line, and eventual kicking and infuriated swearing, resolutely refused to crash.

As the curtain finally fell on the Phantom cursing futilely at his chandelier, the cast and crew huddled in the wings, aware that they could very well be in for the scolding of their lives.

Galadriel rose from her chair in one fluid and magnificent motion. Celeborn automatically leapt up too. Without twitching a feature, Galadriel sent a silent call through the minds of her company, who miserably shuffled onstage, awaiting their due dressing-down.

Galadriel let her terrible gaze sweep across the bowed heads, none who dared look up to meet her eyes. When she had reduced most of them to a state of more or less mind-numbing terror, she spoke, in a calm, expressionless tone: "Perhaps today is not our day. I think we should all give it a rest for the moment."

With these words, she turned majestically on her heel in a swirl of white and light, and swept statuesquely from the room. Celeborn stayed only to give them a 'Now-see-what-you've-done' look, and then hurry after the figure of his wife.

No one said anything for a long time.

Silence roared in the emptiness of the theatre.

Then slowly Jack got to his feet. He had taken off the hat he was accustomed to wearing about onstage, and was fiddling with it uneasily. Eventually he said – or more like, croaked – "It's me fault. I'm sorry, mates – really I am."

Holding the hat in one hand, he crossed the stage with painful slowness and made to leave the theatre, head bowed.

Elizabeth raised her head wearily. "No, Jack," she said. "It's not just you."

"It was all of us," said Aragorn.

He had voiced what all of them had been repeating wretchedly in their heads. Some people nodded. Others bit their lips, or put their heads into their hands. The silence was heavier than an entire winter's accumulation of snow.

Arwen sighed. She rose, sorrow etched on her beautiful face, and addressed them all. "I know a lot of us don't want to be here. I know a lot of us don't like this production. I know we were forced into doing it – but still, we shouldn't use that as an excuse to botch everything. We might not like what Lady Galadriel wants us to do – but she's really put a lot into this production, more than any of us, and I think today we really let her down."

She bowed her head. "I'm not saying this because she's my grandmother. I'm saying this because I made some mistakes too, a lot of mistakes that as an actress I shouldn't have been making, and I'm ashamed of myself now. I think we're all ashamed of ourselves now."

No one said anything, because she was right.

Then Jack spoke up from where he was standing at the door. "Well, mates, we can't go on like this. We've got to apologise – but she's not gonna believe we're really sorry until we show it, savvy?" A shadow of his old grin wavered on the edge of his expression, but his face was still sober. "Performance is in three days' time, mates. There's a lot we got to be doin'. So let's get crackin'."

He gazed expectantly at their faces. Arwen gave him a tearful smile. Aragorn jumped up. "You heard Jack," he declared. "Come on, we're a class, we can do this. Let's – er, get cracking."

* * *

Galadriel left the kitchens.

She was perfectly calm. The Lady Galadriel was famous for her talent for perfect calm, not only on the outside, but internally, emotionally and psychologically. Nothing disturbed the surface of the flawless lake of her expression

She walked along the corridor, turned the corner, and felt a presence. Pausing, she let the tendrils of her mind drift along the corridor ahead of her, up the stairs, into the nooks and crannies of the walls, gently probing for another mind to latch onto.

She found it.

_"…let your fantasies unwind, _

_In this darkness which you know you cannot fight  
The darkness of the music of the night!"_

_Jack accompanied this last line with a twirl and a spin, stopping to catch his breath but grinning nevertheless. _

_"Close your eyes, start a journey through this strange new world  
Leave all thoughts of the world you knew before_

_Close your eyes, let your – _no, wrong_ – take your – _no, wait, I _know_ this – _and let music set you free!"_

_He hit the note perfectly. _

_Jack threw his hat up into the air in exuberant triumph. "Yes!" _

_Leaning against the wall, he fingered the hat and gazed out of the windows lining the opposite walls, into the great blue, and sang in a low voice: _

"_Only then can you belong to me……"_

_Grinning, he affixed the hat atop his head and strode off down the corridor. "Aye, we're good, mate, we're good."_

Galadriel opened her eyes, smiled at the window at the far end of the corridor, and walked on.

Down the spiral staircase, down another corridor, past the suit of armour. She moved silently down the levels, passing empty classrooms, till suddenly she stopped before one. Upon its wall she turned the gaze that could pierce stone and petrify wood, and looked through it.

_"…okay, here comes your cue – _Maestro, the ballet – now!"

_To the tune of Briseis' humming and the rhythm of her foot tapping, Holly raced across the empty classroom, spun slowly, and began to execute the country dance the ballet girls were due to perform during Il Muto, accompanied by Briseis' encouraging commentary._

_"…back, forth, skip-skip-skip, remember your crook, yes, wave……"_

_Sweat was beading on Holly's forehead with the effort. Trying to overcome the lack of grace that was her natural attribute was difficult, but nevertheless she persevered. On Briseis' direction she did one or two passable fouettes._

_"…and here comes the important bit! Front, back, side-ways-jump-and turrrrn……yes!"_

_Holly pirouetted to the right and flopped onto the ground. Briseis ran over._

_"See? I told you you it was easy."_

_Holly was breathing hard, but she still had enough breath to flash a tired grin. "For people who can do it, yes."_

Galadriel released the wall from her stare, smiled briefly and continued on past the other empty classrooms. She reached the ground floor, and slipped out of a side door into the school gardens, her favourite place for a stroll of an evening.

She walked through the gardens. The evening, once you really thought about it, was actually quite beautiful, for an evening. She smiled. At her feet, a clump of daisy buds burst into bloom.

Galadriel walked on.

She heard singing.

It was beautiful singing, and definitely quite familiar. Galadriel stopped in the shade of one of the many mallorns planted about the garden, and let her mind flow.

_"Say you love me every waking moment  
Turn my head with thoughts of summertime  
Say you need me with you now and always  
Promise me that all you say is true_

_That's all I ask of you……"_

_The swing shifted, in the breeze. Arwen had one hand clasped delicately around one of the ropes, the other demurely in her lap. Her eyes had the sea-like dreamy look they always held when she was singing. She shut them, and then opened them again. "Aragorn, it's your cue."_

_Aragorn was sitting on a curved root at the base of the tree from which the swing hung, supporting his chin thoughtfully. At her reprimanding tone he started. "Sorry, I forget. Do you want to take it from the chorus?"_

_Arwen smiled graciously. "No, just continue. And remember the new harmony we made up, yes?"_

_Aragorn obliged. "Let me be your shelter, let me be your light. You're safe, no one will find you – your fears are far behind you……"_

_"All I want is freedom, a world with no more night – and you, always beside me, to hold me and to hide me……"_

_Arwen slipped off the swing, and pulled Aragorn up, and together they waltzed down the garden, singing and harmonising perfectly so they sounded like one liquid sound._

_"Then say you'll share with me one love, one lifetime  
Say the word and I will follow you  
Share each day with me, each night, each morning…"_

_Aragorn spun Arwen in a deft underarm turn, as she sang, "Say you love me…" and finished in a waltz dip. _

_"You know I do," he said._

_She straightened. Together they sang,_

_"Love me…that's all I ask of you."_

_There was a pause. The garden was silent, enchanted, steeped in magic. Arwen broke it by gasping, "Was it good? Did we get it right?"_

_"Yes, we did!"_

_Arwen gave an exclamation of delight. "We did it! I knew we could! Oh, Grandmother will be _so_ pleased when she hears us……"_

_Aragorn laughed and kissed her._

Galadriel opened her eyes.

She smiled.

All along the paths of the gardens, daisies burst into bloom.

* * *

Andromache knocked briskly on the door of the boys' dormitory. It was opened by Legolas.

"I have a message," she told his frown primly.

"Oh, very well," said Legolas, and stood aside. Andromache surveyed the scene behind him. The boys' dormitory was definitely a lot more boisterous at night than the girls'. Ron and Jack were holding an exciting competition which involved exploding cards, cheered on by several of their dorm-mates, among them Harry and the hobbits, whose singed fingers betrayed the fact that they had previously been engaged in that same competition and had lost. No one was trying to do their homework, except for perhaps Artemis, who was attempting to annotate Merchant of Venice with a fiercely annoyed look on his face, but didn't seem to be succeeding.

Andromache cleared her throat.

Several of the dorm's occupants seemed to notice her, and the noise died down. "What ho, ballet mistress," called Achilles jocularly from where he was stretched out on his bed.

"I have a message," repeated Andromache. "It's important. Galadriel says please meet at four p.m. tomorrow for rehearsal. Two full runs, scriptless. Thank you."

She left. As the door shut behind her, the dormitory exploded into animated conversation. "Yes! We did it!" "She's forgiven us then." "Oh, gosh, where's my script, I _need_ to learn Act II Scene V, it's my worst……"

Jack threw his hat into the air again. It came down on the deck of cards, which exploded, and caused much hullabaloo that took the more responsible members of the dormitory much time to diffuse, in order to gain the rest of them some opportunity to get some sleep.

**End of Chapter**

_Next chapter coming…_**Idioms and Insurgence**


	26. Idioms and Insurgency

**A&A&A Boarding School**

Author's Note: This is a remarkably short chapter for our standards, but we hope the events within are momentous enough to make up for it.

As usual, thank you for the reviews, and as to the speculations about the Voice in Artemis' head: No, it's not Holly Short, but yes, indirectly it has something to do with her. As it has with Éowyn. And Hermione. And a lot of other people.

In advance, Happy New Year.

**26. Idioms and Insurgency**

The sun was light on the glass, not yet warm, but slowly upping the brightening. The sky was the colourlessness that came between the sunrise and the clear blue of morning. Birds sang as if they'd never learnt their lesson, which they hadn't. But they had to be given credit for perseverance.

Somewhere in the great tower, the school bell tolled imperiously. On cue, _Do You Hear The People Sing_ began.

People in both boys' and girls' dormitories groaned, turned over in bed and variously clapped pillows, nightcaps, or their bare hands over their ears. Van Helsing's hand shot out from under the covers, scrabbled on the bedside table till it found something – namely, the leather hat – and threw it. With surprisingly good aim it clipped Grantaire a sharp one on the ear.

Slowly, people began to get out of bed. This was done in a diverse variety of ways. Hermione shot bolt upright – she woke like locomotion on schooldays – jumped out of bed, scooped up her day clothes and toothbrush and ran for the bathroom, running through the day's timetable in her head.

Arwen Undómiel woke with the same alacrity, but with considerably more flair and grace. She was one of those fortunate people who had been spared the annoying experience of waking up with their hair in a mess; when she rose from her rest, it swung out behind her in a magnificent dark flood. Most of the other girls looked away. It was always very hard to feel beautiful when Arwen was around.

Sooner or later, they found their way to the bathroom. Sleepily, bleary-eyed, they tried to aim the toothpaste onto the appropriate brush, while wondering why the hell their left slipper was on their right foot. Lili Frond busily set out her plethora of cosmetics, facial creams and other unguents. The others queueing behind her sighed and moved on to other sinks.

Then it was out of the pajamas into the day clothes, which always degenerated into a bang-on-the-toilet-door-and-swear-impatiently fest, especially when person in said toilet was in the habit of relieving exhaustion by curling up on the toilet cover and wholly unintentionally falling asleep.

Somehow, by Friday everyone had learnt to survive this daily morning ritual, and still get down to breakfast on time, more or less prepared for the new day ahead.

Achilles, running a hand through his tangled mane of hair (unlike Arwen, he was, alas, not gifted with perfect hair in the morning) wandered down the stairs to the Dining Hall, yawning hugely. He spotted Briseis clutching an armful of books on the landing – and for once, she was sans Andromache.

Achilles ran a hand through his hair again, put on his best nonchalant grin and sauntered over casually. "Hey," he said. "Nice morning."

Briseis turned at the sound of his voice. "Oh, hi," she replied brightly. "Yes, the weather looks all right."

"Say," went on Achilles nonchalantly, "do you happen to know what the lesson after breakfast is? Only, I've lost my timetable, and……"

"It's Chinese," Briseis answered quickly. "Third Languages. I think it sounds really interesting – I like Third Languages, even if Professor Celeborn's a bit weird sometimes."

"Yeah," said Achilles. "He's a weird blighter."

"I daresay, but he's not that bad, really. I'm sure he means the best."

"Yeah, I'm sure." Achilles did a mental playback of that sentence and decided it sounded a bit too sarcastic. "Uh, I mean, yeah, you never know what they're meaning till they tell you. Funny world. Isn't it?"

Briseis nodded, looking slightly puzzled.

"I was wondering," went on Achilles breezily, "you've been standing here pretty long, so, er, are you waiting for any — "

"Briseis!"

_Oh, heck, here we go again_, thought Achilles wearily as Andromache cluttered down the steps and strode towards them. "Sorry I took so long, bit of problem with the hairpins……" She gave Achilles a look that clearly said "You _again?_", relieved Briseis of some of her books, linked arms and led the other girl away.

Achilles briefly considered punching the marble banister, but decided against it, because it was marble, and because he had better things to do.

Hector came upon him while Achilles was contemplating the marble in an introspective state of mind quite uncommon in his usual spectrum of contemplation. Seeing Achilles as someone who didn't look too occupied at the minute, he came over and said, conversationally, "Hello, how're you doing?"

"Not good," said Achilles, still contemplative.

"I'm fine too," rejoined Hector distractedly. "Achilles, are you any good at Math? Only," he displayed a piece of paper that looked as if an army of fountain pens had terrorized it and razed it to the ground through rough working, "I'm having problems with yesterday's worksheet."

"Wrong number," concluded Achilles briefly.

"Oh," said Hector. He stared despondently at his chaotic scribblings. "Do you know anyone who's good at it, then?"

"Fowl?"

"Anyone who's _helpful_."

"I don – " began Achilles, and stopped. An idea had just occurred to him. It was a pretty good one, and those didn't come very often these recent days. "Wait, you know that girl who sits with me and Briseis at the back? Tall, skinny, sits like a poker? Name of Andromache?"

"She's in our P.E. team, isn't she?"

"That's the one!" exclaimed Achilles, snapping his fingers very loudly. "She's not too bad at quadratic equations – that's algebra you're trying to do, right? Okay, right. Yep, you can try her."

When Hector had thanked him and left, Achilles turned back to contemplating the marble banister, but with more felicific intentions in mind. After a suitable length of time, he ran his hands through his hair again, patted the marble absently, and sauntered down the stairs towards breakfast.

* * *

When the first-years headed off for Chinese class after breakfast, Achilles was still in awe of the efficiency of his impromptu plan.

He and Briseis were walking a slight way behind Andromache and Hector, who were getting on like a house on fire. The sparks were certainly available in plentiful quantity.

"They really get along, don't they?" remarked Briseis to him.

Understatement, thought Achilles. Hector and Andromache had moved through over fifty topics in the duration of breakfast, from quadratic equations, to teachers, to the school food, to the Phantom of the Opera, to the current topic, which was inconceivably (he had no idea how they'd got there) ties. So far they hadn't disagreed on a single one.

"It's funny," went on Briseis, "they never used to talk to each other before. But then, I suppose they didn't have much of a chance to."

"Mmhmm," supplemented Achilles helpfully.

"I'm glad they enjoy each other's company, though," concluded Briseis.

"Yeah," agreed Achilles. "Especially for Andromache. It's good for her to get out and meet new people, instead of…"

"Wait," interrupted Briseis, "are you saying that she's better off talking to Hector than to me?"

"Yes. I mean, _no_, no, no. What am I saying. I was just going to say, Hector's a really great guy _too_. Runs in the family."

Briseis gave him a puzzled look. She did that quite often.

"Here," said Achilles, changing the subject. "You look like you're having trouble with those books. I'll help you."

He entered the classroom carrying Briseis' books and feeling on top of the world.

Today, Celeborn was quite aware that Chinese wasn't going to go down very well with most people. Having grasped the concept of the normal alphabet and how you arranged it, it wasn't going to be that easy to tell them that this time, the language was a billion pictograms with different sounds and no written alphabet whatsoever.

He decided to take the easy way out, gave them a long list of phrases to learn and threatened them with a spelling test at the end of the lesson.

"This is stupid," said Éowyn for the tenth time. "What was the point in inventing all this in the first place?"

"Communication, I believe," replied Artemis impassively. The voice hadn't spoken to him this morning, and thus he was in an excellent mood.

"No one's talking to you."

Holly chewed on her pencil and scribbled down a few notes after a series of incomprehensible wordings. Éowyn envied the way she was able to grasp the whole concept a lot faster than a normal human would. On occasions like this, she could murder for the gift of fairy linguistics.

"Let's start from the top," said Holly, business-like. "Write 'tree'. That's easy."

"What's 'tree' again?"

"Mù."­­

"Oh. Is it the cross?"

Holly sighed. "No, it's the cross and the two curvy lines. This one."

Éowyn considered it. "It doesn't look like a tree," she argued.

"It's a _simplified_ tree, okay? Just write it, or Celeborn will get you."

Artemis finished reading the textbook through. "There is no extra dash," he pointed out severely. "That makes it _ben_."

"This is stupid and confusing," said Éowyn. It was depressing, sitting with two other people better at linguistics than you were. She had the feeling she wasn't going to like Chinese class.

* * *

"I got seventy-eight out of a hundred," exclaimed Hermione, shocked. "I don't believe it. I got _seventy-eight_."

"It's _Chinese_, Hermione," protested Harry, well aware of the futility. "You can't be expected to score full marks on a language you don't even know."

"I did _extra reading_, I'll have you know," huffed Hermione.

"I got _eight_ marks, I'll have you know," retorted Ron. "If you don't stop griping and hurry up, we'll be late for CLE, and you know what Javert's like over punctuality."

Artemis Fowl came into view, walking alone. Hermione turned to him, mouth forming the question, while Ron simultaneously groaned, "Oh no, _don't_ ask him about……"

"Eighty-four," said Artemis helpfully, before either of them finished.

"_What_?" gasped Hermione.

Artemis turned to her coolly. "Think that's shocking, mademoiselle? If you want a real surprise, try Holly Short."

Hermione mouthed at him for a while, then raced off to catch up with Holly, who was ahead with the rest of the Company of Heroines.

"Why'd you tell her that for?" Ron berated him. Artemis didn't answer.

As they watched from a distance, Hermione put a hand to her mouth and collapsed against a row of lockers, wide-eyed in shock.

"What did Holly get?" demanded Harry angrily.

Artemis smiled serenely. "Ninety-four."

"Why'd you tell her that for?" reiterated Ron furiously. "Now she's going to…oh, you know what Hermione's like." He broke into a run, followed by Harry.

"_Yi ku, er nao, san shangdiao _1," murmured Artemis to himself. The feminine mentality was a complete mystery to him.

1 _Chinese idiom summarizing the melodrama of a woman distraught – First she weeps, then she throws a fit, the last resort being suicide. The ancient Chinese bred some dreadful chauvinists, but then again, we must refer to Idiom 2: There is no smoke without a fire._

* * *

The classroom, a riot of chatter and noise, fell silent the moment Inspector Javert entered. He cast a black look upon their suddenly silent faces, and without a word strode to the front of the class, still swinging the black baton, and glared at them.

The class eyed him guardedly.

Javert kept up the glaring for about ten seconds, and then bellowed so suddenly that Carl almost fell off his seat. "So? No greeting?"

The class hastily scraped back their chairs and bowed messily. "Good morning Inspector Javert."

Inspector Javert glared at them again as they sank into their seats. He cleared his throat and picked up a piece of chalk. Their feelings sank too.

Javert stalked over to the board and chalked out: I, (NAME), WILL ALWAYS SHOW RESPECT TO MY ELDERS WHEN I SEE THEM BY GREETING THEM ON INITIATIVE.

"Now," he growled, "write that a thousand times."

The tittering of the class grew into a loud angry mutter, and several of its more vocal members raised their voices in protest: "_What_?" "That's not fair!" "We can't do it in an hour…" "What's the _point_?"

"_Seee-lawnce!_" roared Javert.

The muttering was silenced unwillingly.

"I believe in the old school of learning," barked Javert. "Nothing better than drilling it in the _good, hard way_. Now, write! I want those lines in by your recess, or I'll keep you all back!"

Fuming, the class dragged out foolscap and stationery and every nerve straining in rebellion, began to write their lines.

The hour dragged past, screaming déjà vu in their wilting ears. The ones with a lower threshold of pain found it absolute agony. Grub was nearly sobbing by the time half of the lesson had gone by. The ones with a more actively murderous imagination, like Achilles and Anna, were picturing the different ways they could garrot Javert. The philosophical ones, like Arwen and Hermione, were trying to figure out how exactly this was supposed to improve their character, apart from giving them really muscular wrist joints.

Even though the lines were shorter than last time, the going was no easier. By the time the hour struck, only Hermione had hit the halfway mark, which she had just passed by three lines.

Javert inspected their progress critically, looked rather miffed at their inefficiency, and declared, "Well, since none of you have finished, I am afraid I shall have to keep you back during your recess after all! You won't leave till you've finished!"

The class was exceedingly fatigued, but there were still gasps of outrage. Hermione boldly raised a hand – her left – and spoke up, "But, Inspector, we definitely can't finish a thousand lines even if you keep us back for – "

"IMPERTINENCE!" Javert's face was suddenly in front of hers, and a terrifying deep claret. Hermione gave a little shriek and jerked backwards, nearly toppling the chair. "You do not question! You _hear_ and you _obey_! For this…this _insouciance_, mademoiselle, you will get another hundred lines!"

Hermione's jaw dropped. There were more gasps of outrage, and of sympathy on her behalf. Across the classroom, chair legs scraped the floor tiles as Enjolras stood up.

Javert stalked over to him, bellowing. "_Asseyez-vous! Asseyez-vous, I say! Impertinence!_"

Enjolras withstood the onslaught valiantly. His clear voice overrode Javert's, so filled it was with commanding charisma that even Javert fell silent in shock, that a student had dared to reprove him. "Sir," said Enjolras, unwavering, "I do not know what sort of operation you are running here, and I fail to see what lessons of character or of leadership it is teaching us. All this," here he scooped up what pages of writing he had written so far, and raised them in a fist, "all this is of no use to any of us. This is pointless."

Enjolras looked Javert in the eye, as he took hold of both edges of the first sheet of lines, and then slowly and deliberately ripped it down the middle. No one, not even Javert, moved as he tore up every single page, methodically shredding all his work. When he was done, he let the shreds of paper fall through his fingers and went on: "There is nothing for me here, so I shall leave. I will not return until I think that you, sir, can teach me something worth learning. _Au revoir_."

Enjolras inclined his head coldly to Javert, turned on his heel, and walked out of the classroom.

For a moment, there was absolute silence. Javert appeared to be still in shock.

Then there was a scraping of chairs as the rest of the revolutionaires rose, and without a word to Javert, followed their leader. Gavroche circled around, pulled a face at the Inspector's back, and scampered after the others.

Javert turned to watch them go, and so missed Achilles making an obscene gesture at him and marching out via the back door.

To everyone's huge surprise, the previously mild-mannered Briseis stood up, tossed her hair and marched out after him. Andromache, looking torn between propriety and loyalty, eventually gave in to the latter and hurried after her friend.

Van Helsing scooped up his hat, replaced it on his head and strode out. Anna, not to be outdone, leapt up and left the room as well, her boots striking the floor with decisive noises. The Company of Heroines, following her example, made a beeline from wherever they had been seated across the classroom for the exits.

Jack, in the meantime, had balled all his lines into a multitude of paper balls. With a flick of his wand, he caused an explosion of paper cannonballs and left the flashy way. Will hurried after him.

Legolas flicked his hair, got up majestically and sauntered out. Helen followed, which led to Paris following. Hector got up and went after his brother.

Arwen and Aragorn both rose simultaneously and headed for the door, each passing on either side of Javert. They were both cradling their writing hands in a very obvious manner. Arwen, in particular, looked martyred.

Artemis Fowl finished fastidiously packing up his desktop, and without looking once at Javert, passed him and disappeared. Draco Malfoy and Haldir, to the contary, both threw the Inspector disdainful looks as they passed him. Trouble left dragging Grub behind him. Merry and Pippin both made rude hand gestures under desk level in symphony as they scurried out.

Swiftly the class emptied, until the only person left was Hermione. Harry and Ron, waiting for her at the door, saw her rise, shaking. Like Andromache, she must be torn between the unshakeable rule of respect for a teacher and her own indignation.

Hermione marched up to the front of the class, where Inspector Javert stepped into a path. He opened his mouth to say something, his face working furiously, but Hermione cut in.

"Sir," she said, her voice quivering with righteous ire, "I will have you know that I have never, _never_ done anything in my life that can condemn me to writing lines. You, of all people, have _no_ right to give me _extra_ lines. I'll have you know that."

She strode past him, to where Harry and Ron were grinning and giving her the thumbs-up, and then they ran for it.

And so it was, that when Enjolras entered the Dining Hall with the recess bell still ringing in his ears, the whole first-year class of A&A&A streamed in after him. He was in the lead of a revolution, an exodus, forty-five individuals all with a single mind, a rebellion burning with righteous indignation – and alight with freedom.

**End of Chapter**

_Next chapter coming…_** Longitudes and Lorenzo**


	27. Longitudes and Lorenzo

**A&A&A Boarding School**

Author's Note: And we are back – fast! This is mostly due to the frenetic panic induced by oh-my-god-school-starts-tomorrow. It's to make up for the fact that after tomorrow we'll be returning to our previous status of updating once-a-month. Sorry. Life's like that.

But anyway, we'd like to say thank you for the last barrage of reviews. Hello, Mary – thank you, Zareen, for that long review.

For a long time, we've been seeing hints of the older students here and there about the chapters, hovering on the edge of the story. Now, the Seniors are on the move. Watch, juniors, and learn.

**27. Longitudes and Lorenzo**

The class, awash in their newfound spirit of rebellion, was in a fey mood that not even Literature reading could dampen. Elrond had started them on Act Two, and once again showed his remarkable aptitude for casting, when he had Chix Verbil read the Prince of Morocco.

"Mislike me not for my complexion…" began Chix. He was distracted by Elizabeth's sudden gasp of laughter, and both he and Elrond threw her funny looks. Elizabeth clapped a hand over her mouth and rocked back and forth in silent hysteria, nearly letting out a shriek when Chix reached "The best-regarded virgins of our clime". Will watched her with consternation, and omitted to take notes on Shakespearean racism.

Eventually they had consumed so much time in Elizabeth's hysterical rendering of Act Two Scene 1 that Elrond was forced to skip the next two scenes. After appointing Pippin as Launcelot Gobbo, they rushed through Scene 4 like a derailed steam engine and arrived at the opening of Scene 5 still panting.

"This is an important scene," began Elrond, still speaking fast from the speed residue. "Put that under father/daughter relationships in your table, please. Oh yes, we must have a Jessica. Hm." His eyebrows worked. "Let's see. Jes-si-ca. Which young lady in this class has a name ending in 'a'?"

Fingers swivelled and pointed at Anna, who looked mortified.

Elrond regarded her critically. "Anna, isn't it? Nice name. Palindromic. Stand up and read Jessica, if you please."

Anna did not please, but she could not gainsay Elrond. Trying to ignore Van Helsing's annoying smirk at her discomfort, she shifted her weight from foot to foot as Artemis and Pippin dragged on to her cue.

"Call you? What is your will?"

Anna did her best to sound monotonous, but Elrond appeared to interpret that as demure aquiescence and let it pass, to her annoyance.

The three read on. "I will not say you shall see a masque," babbled Pippin, "but if you do, then it was not for nothing that my nose fell a-bleeding on Black Monday last at six o'clock i'th'morning, falling out that year on Ash Wednesday was four year in th'afternoon."

"What, are there masques?" responded Artemis, who was personally very impressed with Shylock for having been able to find any meaning at all in the above sentence. "Hear you me, Jessica: Lock up my doors; and when you hear the drum……"

Pippin waited for the end of Artemis' speech denouncing street parades and added in an aside to Jessica, "There will come a Christian by – will be worth a Jewess' eye." With that, he sat down with a flourish.

"What says that fool of Hagar's offspring?" said Artemis, and added with infinite weariness, "ha?"

"His words were 'Farewell, mistress' – nothing else."

"The patch is kind enough," took up Artemis, "but a huge feeder, snail-slow in profit, and he sleeps by day more than the wild-cat. Drones hive not with me."

Merry slapped Pippin on the back. "That's you all right! Never done an honest day's work in your life!"

"Shut up," retorted Pippin impishly.

They turned their attention back to Anna, who was saying, "Farewell; and if my fortune be not crossed, I have a father, you a daugher, lost. Is that my last line?" she added in an aside to Carl.

Carl checked his book. "For this scene, yes. But next scene you're eloping with Lorenzo."

Van Helsing, who had been idly picking lint off his hat, was jerked into unhappy reality. "What?"

Elrond gave Anna no time for horrified response. "Gratiano, Salerio, Lorenzo, _up_! Proceed, Faramir!"

_My character is eloping with Anna's_, thought Van Helsing through a mist of horror as he stared down at his battered script. _Bloody hell_.

Anna stared at her cue.

(JESSICA, _above, in boy's clothes_)

She tried to think it through. Elrond was up at the front explaining how in Elizabethan times, the roles of women were played by boys whose voices hadn't broken yet. _Let's see, _thought Anna, _say for example I'm playing an Elizabethan actor acting Jessica. So, I'd be playing a boy who's acting a girl who right now is disguised as a boy. I suppose this is what they call dramatic irony._

"Who are you?" she said with positive misery. "Tell me for more certainty. Albeit – I'll swear – that I do – know – your – tongue – "

Van Helsing glanced at the next line and blanched.

The class, most of which had been dozing off, came awake in the ensuing silence, and glanced inquisitively at Van Helsing and Anna. Anna had turned a startling shade of pale. Van Helsing's face was invisible, because he had put his hat back on, but it was clear that it wasn't in the best of states.

"Well?" said Elrond quizzically into the uneasy lull in recitation. "Why aren't you reading?"

Van Helsing slowly ran his finger down to his place, trying to kill time. With as much speed as an extreme slow motion film, he muttered, "Lorenzo – and – and – and thy – "

Anna shut her eyes and looked as if she was awaiting execution.

"Faster," said Elrond, irritated, "we're running out of time here."

" – and – thy – l – "

The bell rang.

The slow-motion film jerked forward drastically in time. With a speed that was astounding, Anna and Van Helsing sat down, stuffed their textbooks into their bags, leapt out of their seats and dashed for the door. They collided into each other while they were attempting to go through it, tried futilely to go through simultaneously again, and failed. In the end Anna, being the thinner one, pushed past first and fled down the corridor outside, followed by a no less escapist Van Helsing.

Elrond stared after his renegade readers. "What was that all about?"

It was far too much for Elizabeth, who went into clean and pure hysterics. Sadly, it was infectious.

* * *

The Company of Heroines caught up with Anna, who was hiding from the world beside the coffee machine. She shook her head violently when Éowyn opened her mouth. "I _don't_ want to talk about it, okay?"

Éowyn opened and shut her mouth. "Okay," she said finally, turned away, shoved a cup under the spout and flipped a switch. Foam rose as the coffee sloshed into the styrofoam cup, thick and black. Éowyn handed it to Anna. "Here."

Anna took it and drank deeply, ignoring the scalding temperature of the coffee. "Thanks," she said, after a long silence of drinking. "I needed that."

Eponine changed the subject by drawing their attention to a piece of paper pinned to the side of the coffee machine. It said:

MUSIC IS THE FOOD OF LOVE

JOIN THE A&A&A SYMPHONIC BAND

AUDITIONS THIS SATURDAY

"There's another one on this side," observed Holly.

They moved to the other side of the coffee machine, upon which another piece of paper had been stuck up on. It was much more floried than the other one – the background seemed to be an inky mish-mash of diamonds, feathers and purple lighting, upon which was printed in large curly letters:

DRAMA IS A GIRL'S BEST FRIEND

VISIT THE DRAMA CLUB

AUDITIONING JUNIORS TOMORROW

AESTHETICS BLOCK, J-101

(SCRIPTWRITERS not WELCOME)

"What's all this about?" wondered Éowyn aloud.

"It's that Co-curricular Activities thing Galadriel was talking about," recalled Holly. "Something about how we've all got to join a Sport or a Performing Art or a Club. It's compulsory."

"Damn," said Anna.

"Let's go for Geog," suggested Elizabeth. "I want to be early for a change."

She turned to head for the spiral staircase, but stopped, because the end of a shining rapier had suddenly whizzed into view. Admittedly, the sword did have a rubber tip, but it didn't minimise the shock.

"_Avast!_" cried a voice. " – and take a flyer. Thank you."

Speechless, Elizabeth looked down at the flimsy piece of paper that had been shoved into her hand, and then back up at the person waving the sword at them. He was all in black, and was wearing a black half-mask. His voice had sounded odd – on reflection, thought Elizabeth, it was probably the accent. It was strongly Spanish.

"Er," she said, "what's going on? Who are you?"

"Read the leaflet, senorita," said the mysterious masked fellow. "And might I add, contrary to popular rumour, we do not discriminate against the fairer sex in our selection of new recruits for our CCAs. Why, our own vice-chair is Elena de la Vega herself – "

Elizabeth glanced at the flyer. It said:

FENCING IS THE NEW BLACK

AUDITIONS AT F-203, SPORTS BLOCK

PREVIOUS EXPERIENCE PREFERABLE

"You're a fencer?" she said.

"Who _are_ you?" supplemented Anna.

The advertiser took a bow. "Since you ask. My name is……"

"_Inigo Montoya_."

The voice belonged to a red-haired girl leaning against the banister. She was wearing a prefect's badge that said _Jean Grey_, and had a notebook in her hand with a pen resting idly against it. "Inigo Montoya," she repeated. "I believe this is your second warning."

Inigo Montoya seemed to grow sheepish. "Er, hello, Jean. I was just, er – "

"I've already had to haul Westley out of the hall entrance," went on Jean Grey. "I confiscated his sword too. As I shall do yours."

"Wait!" began Inigo in horror, but the prefect raised a hand, and the sword ripped out of its owner's grip and zoomed, with no apparent support, through the air, landing neatly in Jean's hand. "Surely you know," went on Jean, ignoring Inigo's protests, "that carrying a weapon is illegal in school context."

"It's a piece of CCA equipment!" wailed Inigo. "It's _rubber-tipped_!"

"It's a weapon, and you're breaking school rules," said Jean mercilessly. "And take off the mask, that's against the rules too. You're lucky I don't give you a double booking."

"Please, Jean," entreated Inigo, "I have to have the sword for CCA Orientation. Can I have it back? I'll go away, I will, I won't wave it at people……"

"I'm taking it to Professor McGonagall," cut in Jean. "If you and Westley want your weapons back, tell the Chairperson of Fencing to go see her. With an _explanation_. For your information, your precious chairperson is already in a lot of trouble with the Prefectorial Board. You can tell Alejandro that if he _carves__one more_ 'Z' in a _school wall_, I will personally drag him down to McGonagall myself on charges of vandalism. Good day, Inigo. Stop harassing the juniors and move along."

Dejectedly, Inigo Montoya trooped back up the stairs, casting indignant glances back at Jean as he went.

Jean Grey sighed, shut her notebook and slid it into her bag. "Didn't give you too much of a shock, did he?" she asked nonchalantly as she performed the process.

Mutely, the Company of Heroines shook their heads.

"Good." The prefect straightened up and gave them a wan smile. "I hope you haven't heard this once too often, but I happen to be Chairperson of the International Strategy Game Society. So, if any of you are interested in chess, or Scrabble, or even Twenty Squares, our auditions are at C-303, tomorrow afternoon. Do drop by. Have a nice day."

* * *

No one really liked Friday afternoons, unless it was Hermione, who was possibly the only person in class to appreciate the conjunction of Literature, Geography and History in one consecutive shot. Priam, after collecting assignments and upbraiding Grub for not doing his, went on to demonstrate how latitudes and longitudes worked on a global basis, using, to their surprise, an orange.

"I've lost the Tropic of Cancer again," complained Hector. "Aragorn, please pass the marker."

Aragorn finished marking out the Greenwich Meridien, not without difficulty, because orange peel is one of the worst surfaces to draw on, and accordingly passed the marker to his deskmate. Both of them eyed Arwen enviously. She had decided to use dressing pins to mark out the continents, and while this was an enormous waste of metal, it was definitely a lot less messy.

Hector watched Arwen sink a pin into the line depicting the Tropic of Capricorn with methodical precision, sighed and put his orange down. It rolled over and accidentally smudged the Equator.

"This is a dreadful waste of a perfectly good orange," complained Merry, drawing a longitudinal lines 60 degrees west of the Greenwich Meridien. His hand slipped, which resulted in an unnatural land deformity in the terrain of Iran. "Think of all the other things I could do with this orange. Eat it, for one."

"You just had lunch," pointed out Frodo reprovingly.

"_Two_ hours ago," corrected Merry. "I'm starving."

Frodo shook his head reprovingly at his cousin and went on drawing the world on a citrus fruit.

Later, when the lesson was over, Mulch swallowed it whole for him.

Global oranges, however, were far preferable to Théoden and his Clear Relevant Accurate Precise history essays. He had finished marking all their essays, down to the minutely detailed comments in the margins, and because their class had such a wonderful mix of standards he had decided to go through various examples.

Hermione had scored highest. Artemis reasoned that this was because Théoden had not liked the cynical tone in his essay.

_Cynical tone, eh_, said an all-too-familiar voice in his head.

_Oh, not you again. Go away._

_I can't. It's your fault I'm here in the first place. You think I like being here?_

_Well, I don't._

_Listen, Arty – _

_Don't call me Arty!_

_ – who cares, I'm you – listen, your head is boring. You're so wrapped up in your own little world, with your mind-games and your statistics, that it's so damn boring. You've never even got around to ruling the world._

_Oh, give me time, I'm working on it. Now, if you please, I have a History lesson to attend……_

Artemis ignored the indignant ranting of the Voice and tried to take notes on How To Improve Your Essay Writing So It Reads Like Miss Granger's. Later he decided it wasn't worth taking notes on _that_ and concentrated on shutting the Voice out.

Later, when Théoden moved on to going through _his_ essay on the screen, he simply tuned out and meditated, despite the Voice humming annoying Europop songs, most of which he wasn't even aware existed, in the background.

For the rest of the class, Conceptual Essays were simply quite boring. So was the part where Théoden gave them a lot of wars and dates to memorise, and hinted menacingly at a pop quiz next week. The only part that was remotely entertaining was when their professor rebuked Achilles for his deplorably vulgar and irrelevant essay, and Achilles offered to read it out. He got as far as halfway down the page before Théoden snapped and gave him detention. The class applauded Achilles as they made their way down to the Dining Hall from History, still very into their rebel-without-a-cause mentality.

* * *

Compared to yesterday, this afternoon's scriptless run was a success. The lighting worked, the curtain worked, the stagehands didn't trip, the chandelier moved as if it was greased (it probably was), the ballerinas danced as if they had had training from the age of six, Christine and Raoul performed a stunning duet, and the Phantom was pitch-perfect.

As the cast rose from their (carefully rehearsed in their free time) curtain call, Galadriel placed her slender white hands together and clapped. It echoed in the empty space of the theatre, so that it sounded like an audience of ghosts was clapping ethereally with her.

"Very good," she said. "Much better. I can see we're all putting in effort today. You may have a fifteen-minute break, after which we will try a full-dress rehearsal, with make-up for the principal cast."

The principal cast, torn between delight at their director's commendation and apprehension at the idea of stage make-up, wandered offstage in search of refreshments. Achilles watched Andromache and Briseis walk with Hector in the direction of the water cooler. After some time, Briseis broke off and circled back to the stage area. Seeing Achilles sitting by himself on the apron and swinging his legs, she went over and scrambled up onto the apron beside him.

"Andromache and Hector really get along very well," she told him. She sounded slightly disconsolate.

"I always knew she'd find a kindred spirit some day," said Achilles blithely.

Briseis sighed.

After fifteen minutes, the cast gathered in trepidation in the many dressing rooms in the extensive backstage of the theatre. There was much outcry in the various rooms, as ballerinas and masquerade dancers tried on their costumes and the cast faced off one of the worst elements in showbiz: make-up.

"…and now just look at the ceiling, there's a good lad," muttered Jack, as he traced eyeliner over Pippin's eyes. "Now, look at me – all right. Hm. Needs more outline."

"Haven't you already put on a lot?" carped Pippin, who had patiently undergone Jack's ministrations for the past seven minutes.

"More's the merrier, that's what I always say," retorted Jack, no stranger to dramatic eyeliner. "Look up again while I just dash this here bit on……aye, you're lookin' good. Here, take a look at yourself," he added, handing Pippin a mirror.

Pippin took one look at his reflection, screamed and keeled over. The mirror went careening across the room, where it crashed into the back of Arwen's leg, causing her to draw an awry line on Merry's cheek with the lip paint. Arwen looked up, cursing irritably. "Who threw that?" Then she looked down and beheld the prostrate Pippin with his drastic countenance, and screamed as well.

Galadriel rushed in from next door, where she had been convincing Holly that no, there was really nothing immodest about sleeveless leotards, and stared in consternation at the chaotic dressing room. It took her some time to sort things out. After ordering Merry and Will to take Pippin to get his face cleaned up, she turned upon the culprit, who was grinning guiltily.

"New backstage rule," announced Galadriel. "Jack Sparrow is not to be allowed anywhere near the eyeshadow, mascara, or eyeliner. I will do his make-up _personally_."

* * *

Apart from the incident in the dressing-room, the first full-dress rehearsal went without a hitch. Galadriel let them off a very satisfied director, and a very relieved cast and crew prepared to pack up for the day.

"Oh," said Galadriel suddenly. "I must inform you about tomorrow. As I told you on Tuesday, there will be no rehearsal for this Saturday, which is tomorrow."

Most of the cast and crew felt like cheering, except that they feared what Galadriel might interpret that as, so they contrived instead to look saddened.

"This," went on Galadriel, "is because of your Co-Curricular Activities Orientation, which takes place tomorrow afternoon – I'm sure you've all seen the marketing efforts by your very dedicated seniors – and basically, you are all required to join either a Sport, a Performing Arts group or one of the Clubs and Societies. It's compulsory. It helps to enrich your after-school life, so we encourage you to join more than one. Do remember to turn up and audition for whichever CCA you want to join, places are limited."

"Oh, yes," she added, "I did tell you about the masquerade ball, didn't I?"

"She did?" whispered Anna, astonished.

"Yes, she did," Arwen whispered back. "Tuesday afternoon, our first rehearsal. Weren't you listening?"

Anna didn't think she had been. Tuesday afternoon seemed _such_ a long way away.

She thought harder, and remembered the state that she (and Draco Malfoy) had been on the afternoon of the first rehearsal, and flinched inwardly. No surprises that she couldn't remember, then.

"It's always our tradition to hold a dance for our first-years," explained Galadriel, "and since this year your first orientation production is the Phantom of the Opera, we thought – why not do a masquerade-ball theme?"

"So, do keep to the dress-code," concluded Galadriel. "I hope to see all of you at both CCA Orientation and the masquerade ball."

In reaction to this news, the class was divided. Half of them – presumably the half who spoke to Arwen on a daily basis – seemed to already be aware of this. The other half – presumably the ones with bad listening skills or a poor memory – were quite shocked.

"Where're we going to find costumes on such short notice?" Éowyn asked Holly in an undertone. The latter shrugged.

"Short notice?" inquired Galadriel pleasantly. "I thought I told you on Tuesday. Young people are so forgetful nowadays. But since you ask, you have tomorrow morning free. You also have the privilege to leave the school on weekends and visit the surrounding town areas. I suggest you use both wisely. Well, have fun preparing. Farewell, my dears."

She swept from the theatre as only the Lady Galadriel could sweep. The class followed in dribs and drabs, wandering off to finish what business they had before dinner.

The Company of Heroines, who when it came to reaction to the news fell into the latter category of bad listeners, hurried down to the Dining Hall. "Masquerade ball?" exploded Holly once they were out of the theatre. "This…this means dresses. Oh, _d'Arvit_……"

**End of Chapter**

_Next chapter coming…_**Malls and Mental Instability**


	28. Malls and Mental Instability

**A&A&A Boarding School**

Author's Note: Sorry for the long delay. We did warn you.

This is a transition chapter – the really fun stuff is happening in the next one. This doesn't mean you should hate this one. Just saying, is all.

In case anyone is confused, today in A&A&A-verse it is Saturday.

The Chinese song that the Voice sings later is derived from Bu Pa Bu Pa by Guomeimei, a parody of Dragostea Din Tei. We are very proud to say that we have nothing to do with the ownership of that song, because _we do not write trash like that_, enough said.

**28. Malls and Mental Instability**

Everybody was so used to waking up at half past six every morning that their biological clocks had reset themselves to that time. Therefore, at somewhere beyond half past six the more adaptable ones rose from their beds, and their feet were carrying them to the dormitory doors when their minds suddenly woke up and realised it was Saturday.

This had a profound effect on everybody, except Hermione, who carried on as if it was a weekday. Everybody else automatically went back to bed.

By the time Harry had got up on his feet, brushed his teeth, got dressed, gone back and shaken Ron and waited for him to do the same, Hermione had eaten breakfast, gone to the library and done all of Friday's homework that she hadn't finished last night. She was sitting in the Dining Hall as they stumbled in, and the look on her face would have struck guilt into the hearts of anyone who was feeling awake and alert at eight o'clock.

"Sleeping in again, were you?" she said accusingly.

"It's Saturday, Hermione," protested Ron, sinking into his seat and digging into the breakfast Galadriel had supplied him with – today it was muesli. There appeared to be more fruit than muesli in the bowl.

"So," said Harry, attempting to lighten the mood, "are we going downtown today? We've got the whole morning free until CCA Orientation."

Hermione opened her mouth, and Ron hastily cut in, "And we don't care if you want to stay here and mug. We'll just go without you."

Hermione glared at him. "I was going to say, _yes_, let's go downtown."

Ron shut his mouth and stared at her.

"I'm sure it'll be an interesting experience," said Hermione primly, "and there are some books I promised Evelyn I'd pick up at the bookshop."

"_Evelyn_?" exclaimed Ron. "You've been talking to the _librarian_?"

"There's only one Evelyn I know," said Hermione. "Don't look at me like that. She's really nice – there's lots of things we talk about, and I feel we can connect on an intellectual wavelength."

The implied statement was that Ron's intellectual wavelength was several crests shorter than hers. Ron ignored this.

"Why're you buying books for her?"

"Not for her, for the library," corrected Hermione testily. "There's a library fund that she uses, except it's been very hard for her to buy them herself since she died, and no one's been adding to the stock since then!" Her tone suggested that a badly-stocked library was worse than the eighteenth level of hell.

"Oh, very well, buy your books," muttered Ron. "I'm sure there's better stuff to do in the town, right, Harry?"

"Right," said Harry. Although they wouldn't get to do it until Hermione had finished dragging them around every second-hand bookshop, was what he didn't add.

* * *

The seniors were truly going all out in marketing their CCAs. Suddenly there seemed to be a lot more of them about the place. The first-years had never really taken much notice of them before this – they had been voices in the ceiling, people you passed on the way to class, inhabitants of the other tables at dinner. Now, however, they seemed to be popping up _everywhere_. Despite the best efforts of the prefects, they were still ambushing the first-years around corners and showering them with flyers.

"Yes, thank you very much," said Andromache, ducking an armful of flyers that was being waved by a bespectacled member of the Advanced Math Club. She followed Hector and Briseis into the Dining Hall. A large part of one wall had been obscured by a massive hand-painted banner that declared:

A&A&A NCC: **YOU** CHOOSE.

Achilles joined them at the table some time later. He was ranting, because 'some idiot' had discreetly stuck a bunch of white stickers with large red crosses on his back. Briseis peeled one off. It said, in tiny print:

RED CROSS: WE HEAL.

"Why _are_ they so desperate to get us to join their CCAs?" mused Andromache. "It's not like they even know us that well."

"Ah," said a pleasant voice behind her, "we do it because we need someone to carry on the baton after we leave this school. In my CCA's case, we mean this literally."

Andromache and Hector swivelled around. The young man smiled at them. He looked alarmingly familiar.

"Bruce Banner," said he by way of introduction. "Track and Field."

Andromache stared at him. "Have we met? You look – very familiar."

Bruce Banner considered this. "No, I don't think so."

"You run, do you?" called Achilles from across the table.

"No, actually, I'm a fielder," said Bruce Banner. "I throw things." He handed Andromache and Hector a small green flag each. On each was inscribed in shiny pen:

TRACK & FIELD IS A PERSONAL CHALLENGE

"We're holding our auditions on the track this afternoon," went on Bruce Banner. "It'd be nice to see you there."

After he left, Andromache was still trying to figure out where she had seen him before. "He really is very familiar, face-wise," she was saying as she and Briseis brushed leftover muesli into the bin. "Like…his ears. I've seen his ears before."

"Lots of people have ears like that," replied Briseis. "Hector's got ears like that, for one."

"Yes," murmured Andromache to herself. "Hector. Hmmm."

* * *

They didn't all go at once; they went in dribs and drabs, wandering down the rocky paths, down the slope of the hill, to where civilization nestled at its foot like a respite. Some of them hung around the halls of A&A&A, thinking of homework, doodling on worksheets – but eventually they all made their way downtown.

The path down from the school led straight to the town square, a spacious paved area surmounted by a decorative fountain. Neat, tidy shops lined its sides, with orderly streets leading off into other parts of the town. It was, on the whole, a pretty place.

The shops sold, among other things, all manner of foodstuffs. There was an ice-cream parlour, a doughnut shop, and various cafés and bars. The Short Alliance descended on all this with undisguised delight, clearly intending to clean it all out by afternoon.

The Company of Heroines passed them on their way through town. Holly jostled past Merry and Pippin, who were desperately pooling cash to buy a Triple Choc Cream Sundae, and hurried to keep up with the others. Elizabeth was peering into store displays with a critical eye.

"I don't…" panted Holly, "…really like…the look of that…"

"Oh, Holly, don't worry," said Elizabeth distractedly, running an expert eye over an ice-blue sash. "You can leave all this stuff to me – I _know_ about dresses."

"I bet you do," muttered Anna, shooting the more off-the-shoulder designs a distrustful glare.

Éowyn saw her brother across the square, and was about to call out a greeting to him, when she saw the people he was with. Faramir waved at her. Éowyn nodded coolly at him, and then pointedly examined a pink lacy skirt that she would have died before wearing.

Faramir looked helplessly at Boromir, who began to whistle.

Grantaire, dragging Courfeyrac and Joly behind him, cut across their path and headed straight into the nearest bar. His goal was to get stone drunk before ten a.m.

Hermione, dragging Ron and Harry behind _her_, crossed the square and headed straight into the nearest bookshop. Her goal hardly needed explanation.

Andromache was trying to get Hector to convince her to buy one of the turquoise necklaces at a jewellery stall. Behind her, Achilles looked bored. Briseis wasn't talking to him; she was, in fact, busy consuming a chocolate lollipop. He was thinking instead of all the things he could say, if he were Hector.

There was a scream from the fountain, as Chix Verbil attempted to chat up some of the maidens of the town.

Everyone found their way here, sooner or later.

* * *

Artemis Fowl, who normally avoided going anywhere near tourist shops, had followed the crowd downtown.

Currently he was standing in the shade of a pillar outside the town bank and surreptitiously taking notes on its security system, in the event that he ever got bored over the weekend and required self-entertainment.

The security guard had very bad taste in music, and was humming a particularly trashy tune and not at all noticing the pale kid in the tinted glasses scribbling busily in a notepad.

Because he had finished his field survey, and because the humming was beginning to get on his nerves, Artemis abruptly left the bank and walked off down the cobblestone street.

Perhaps it was just his irritation, but the humming didn't seem to decrease in volume as the distance between him and the bank grew. In fact, it appeared to intensify.

Then he turned the corner and realised that the humming wasn't coming from the guard at all. It was coming from inside his head.

Artemis stopped in the middle of the street. He carefully put his notepad into his jacket pocket, very slowly, and then he suddenly spun around and, addressing the air in an irate tone, snapped: "Stop that!"

An elderly cleaner paused in his sweeping to stare curiously at Artemis, who was glaring very hard at an embarassed patch of moss on the wall.

Inside, the Voice was raucously singing. Artemis didn't have a problem with Chinese music – in fact, he occasionally listened to inspirational flute melodies – but this particular song had a ghastly tune, and seemed to be lamenting the trials of cockroach phobia.

"Stop it," repeated Artemis. "Your musical taste is _atrocious_."

The Voice stopped singing long enough to pull a face that only Artemis saw. Outwardly he grimaced.

_I'm going mad_, he thought. _Me. Going mad. What a terrible waste._

_Aw, pish._

_Shutup!_ cogitated Artemis fiercely. _Shutupshutupshutupshutup!_

The Voice was so delayed in replying that Artemis thought it had gone away at last. But suddenly it hit back – and not with thoughts, but with a cramping pain that hammered iron locks around his cranium.

Artemis grabbed his head and fell against a nearby brick wall, gasping in pain.

A giant dustbin rolled past, and stopped. The cleaner watched him with interest – the town lacked common street entertainment, and this was certainly well worth viewership.

Artemis took no notice of him. He stumbled away from the wall and staggered past, clutching at the dustbin for support, the pain intensifying with every step.

_Help_, he was thinking, his mind curled up against the pain. _Help_.

From down here, the path up to A&A&A seemed a very, very long one.

* * *

They had to look in the children's section for Holly's clothes. It was quite demeaning.

It was a pretty decent dress, though – black, and sparse in ornament. Admittedly it was sleeveless, but Elizabeth pointed out that only Puritans went to balls dressed head-to-toe in full-sleeved black.

Now they had removed themselves and their purchases to the ice-cream parlour, and were perched in a row on stools before their ice-cream cups. In the way of all-girl gatherings across the world, they had unconsciously arranged themselves in order of height, with Holly at one end and Anna at the other.

Eponine looked across her lemon sorbet out of the wide glass windows of the ice cream parlour at the bar across the road, and saw Courfeyrac trying to drag Marius into it.

Abruptly she got up, pushed her ice-cream to Holly and told her to finish it. Then she turned to Elizabeth. "Can I borrow five quid?"

Elizabeth, too shocked to refuse, handed the money over.

"_Merci_," said Eponine, used one of the coins to pay for the ice-cream and marched out of the door and across the road. They watched her disappear into the bar.

"Dear me," said Elizabeth into the silence. "What's she up to?"

"I think it's not hard to guess," replied Éowyn.

In the bar, the conversation at the French Revolution's table died down as Eponine sauntered over nonchalantly. She glanced at all of them in turn, her gaze resting last on Marius in the corner, and then she grinned.

"So. What's a girl got to do to get drunk around here?"

* * *

Artemis, after a climb immemorial, plunged through the double doors of the Entrance Hall. Some intrinsic survival force, beating beneath the waves of pain cramping his brain, was directing his feet on a path he himself wasn't even looking at.

He stumbled into the Dining Hall and into the tip of an umbrella.

"_Avast_!" cried a voice, "and take a fl – oh dear, _are_ you all right?"

Now having to contend with the pain in his chest as well as his headache, Artemis fell over backwards.

Hands were dragging him upright. Two faces peered down at him; their features zoomed in and out of his blurry vision. Artemis coughed violently, tried to speak. The brain function in charge of that part spontaneously combusted.

Voices were coming to him from a very long way away. One of them was saying in strong accents, "…you done, Westley? If the prefects find out we murdered a junior we are _kaput_."

"I didn't murder him!" exclaimed the other voice, "look, he's still breathing. I repeat, are you all right?"

"Aaargh," Artemis told them sincerely, lurching out of their grasp and away.

Inigo and Westley stared after him as he rounded the corner and disappeared, leaning heavily on the wall.

"We were just trying to help," said Westley, slightly hurt.

"Damn juniors," said Inigo with feeling, "no respect for their seniors." He squinted into the distance. "Wait a minute. Is that who I think it is?"

"What, a prefect? It's _Neo Anderson_, for goodness sakes', _run, Inigo, run_!"

The two renegade fencers pelted off, trailing their replacement umbrellas, followed by a shout across the hall: "STOP RUNNING!"

* * *

Eponine was discovering that, contrary to her original reservations, getting drunk was fun. Very, very fun.

"I never wore dresses," said Courfeyrac.

"You're bloody pickin' on me," laughed Eponine. She drank from the glass. No one else did.

"I never," slurred Grantaire, "nevernevernever – uh, wha'ave I nev'r done before? I never been to the library."

"_Merde_," said Eponine, and drank again. "Don't tell me the rest of you never been to library. Awful place, anyways. My turn, issit? 'Kay. I never kissed a boy."

Grantaire leaned forward and tipped the contents of the glass down his throat.

"You don't say!" exclaimed Joly, refilling the glass. "Who was it?"

"N'telling," muttered Grantaire.

Joly shrugged. "I never caught hypothermia."

No one drank. "You bloody hypochondriac," muttered Feuilly, "All those times you complained you had, and you never."

Joly shrugged again. "Your turn, Marius."

"All right," said Marius. "I've never been in love."

"You're sad," Eponine told him. She pulled the glass across the table to her and drank all of it.

"Hey," said Grantaire, "you ain't s'posed to drink the whole thingy."

"Can if I want," snapped Eponine. "All about proportion, innit? I drink the whole glass, means I'm so damn head-over-heels in love. Innit? And you know the worst thing? My goddamned love, is unrequited. Stupid, innit?"

She took the bottle from Joly's puzzled hands and sloshed some more alcohol into the glass, which she tipped down her throat.

"But that's it for you," she finished, coughing slightly. "_L'amour est un salaud_. So damn cruel."

The rest of her fellow drinkers said nothing.

Marius said, after some time, "I think we've all had enough to drink."

"Ohnononono," interjected Grantaire hastily, "never c'n'ave enough to drink, pass me the bottle, hohoho……"

"We'd better be getting back to the school, it's nearly noon," went on Marius, ignoring Grantaire. "I think the rest of you should drag him. I'll handle Eponine."

"Getchor hands off me," said Eponine miserably. "I'm not drunk, I ain't."

"You are," returned Marius evenly. "Come on, you don't want to miss CCAO, do you?" He took Eponine by the wrist and led her outside and across the square. She followed, bewildered. Behind them, Feuilly and Joly tried to manhandle Grantaire through the door, with Courfeyrac pushing.

"Anyway," went on Eponine in a singsong voice as they crossed the square and left the town, "why've you never been in love, m'sieur Marius? Fine young man like you, surely there's plenty of girls love to give you their pretty hearts. Why've you never been in love?"

"I don't know," said Marius shortly. "I just haven't."

* * *

Artemis couldn't see. His vision was a supernova of brightly-coloured flashes and neon comets. He was now moving only by feel. Nor had he any idea where he was.

The air seemed to move, there was a loud crash, and suddenly the back of his head appeared to be in contact with something hard and painful.

Artemis couldn't find any more of the iron will in him that had kept him moving. He lay there, pain swaddling him like a helpless infant, the Voice cackling evilly in his head.

Something touched his head – a cool, fresh touch, that started off as a single point on his forehead, and then the feeling spread and washed through his head, melting the pain as it went. The shrieking of the Voice was suddenly muffled.

Artemis opened his eyes – a feat startling in its simplicity – and saw one of the nicest visions one could possibly wake up to: the face of the Lady Galadriel bending over him.

A less nice vision, in the form of Professor McGonagall, stood off to one side.

"You never told me, Minerva," said the Lady to her, in tones of faint reproach.

"I didn't know," argued McGonagall. "It was silver – I diagnosed it as the sort Matilda had. I didn't know it went any deeper."

"It probably didn't, at that time," agreed Galadriel. She bent over the prostrate Artemis again. "When did this…Voice start talking to you?"

Artemis wasn't thinking. It was so nice to not think, for once. However, the Voice, keen to make its presence known, said in his words, "Thursday."

Galadriel nodded, and turned back to Professor McGonagall. "There. It was in there all along, dormant at the time of your diagnosis – but exposure to such a…different…environment must have given it the stimulus to break out."

McGonagall seemed to agree with this. "So…I'll leave it to you, your Ladyship. It is, after all, more your field than mine."

"Yes," agreed Galadriel equably, "it is."

McGonagall left, footsteps echoing primly down the corridor.

Galadriel leaned over and extended her hand. Still in the blissful state of not-thinking, Artemis mechanically took it, and she pulled him back onto his feet.

"And now, my dear," she went on as if they had been conducting a relaxed stroll down the corridor all along, "there is someone I would like you to meet."

* * *

"So," said Jean Grey affably, "you're a friend of Sam's?"

"I know him," answered Artemis. He was still feeling slightly detached from his surroundings. The Voice was muttering to itself in the back of his head, biding its time, not daring to break out with the presence of Jean seated opposite Artemis, and Galadriel standing over the two of them.

"Nice kid," continued Jean. "Of course, what he does isn't really what we do. His is a sort of nature thing, you see; our – let's avoid the word magic for the time being – power is in the mind."

_Huh_, echoed the Voice. _Yeah, right. Who does she think she is, anyway_?

Jean shut her eyes. Artemis nearly flinched when he next heard her voice coming not from her mouth but from somewhere inside his head. _I have a Voice too_, it said menacingly. _Would you like to meet it_?

The Voice shuddered and curled up in a dark corner of his brain, for which Artemis was vindictively glad.

"Nicely done, dear," said Galadriel, beaming approval at Jean. She turned back to him. "You will have to learn to control it, Artemis. Only then can you unleash it for your own purpose. Jean and I are here to help you in that. From now on you will take your Magic lessons in a separate class – _my_ special class – and Jean will be your senior. She will keep an eye on you when I am helping Sam."

Artemis nodded mutely. Ordinarily he'd be feeling all elitist about being in a special class, removed from common mortals – but at the moment, the most attractive thing about the whole idea was dealing with the Voice.

Galadriel smiled at them both, then rose. "That reminds me – I must be checking on how the CCA booths are getting along. Fare thee well, my dears." She swept out majestically.

"Right, CCAO," said Jean, getting up. A flick of her eyes, and a strand of red hair that been hanging inconveniently across her line of vision automatically tucked itself behind her ear. "I have to get back to the ISGS booth," she said. "Can't trust the second-years to set up properly. You play chess, don't you? Come and see us later."

She left Artemis standing in the empty classroom.

_Well,_ smirked the Voice, _of all the_ –

Artemis turned around, shut his eyes and _squished_, like Jean and Galadriel had shown him, forced the Voice into its dark corner, crushed it like a troublesome beetle.

He opened his eyes, panting. The Voice mewled pitifully.

Artemis smiled, his trademark supercilious smile, and went downstairs to find some lunch.

**End of Chapter**

_Next chapter coming_…**CCAO and the Clash of the Seniors**


	29. CCAs and the Clash of the Seniors

**A&A&A Boarding School**

Authoresses' Note: Oh, we do love this chapter, siriusly (no, but Bellatrix killed him!) No, we do not own that quote. It belongs to a friend who loved him. The seniors come out in full force, among them eternal favourites of ours, like the Marquis de Carabas and Jack Driscoll. The full list of seniors and disclaimers is at the bottom.

This chapter is so long it had to be split into two parts. Nobody should mind much.

Of all the CCAs described in these chapters, the one most heavily lavished with description and care is the Drama Club. This is because Lydia is her school's Drama Club, and she loves her CCA as her life. The drama studio, the form of audition, the computer chairs and the hideous orange sofa are all actual elements of her own Drama Club, and the script is filled with heavy references to their latest play, Yesterday My Classmate Died, and she has gifted all these things to A&A&A's own, with her blessings.

**29. CCAs and the Clash of the Seniors**

CCA Orientation started right after lunch. All the pent-up suspense that the seniors had been suffering seemed to snap like clockwork unwound, throwing them into the frenzied activity of waiting for juniors to turn up.

The juniors, whom all the fuss was about, were curiously consulting the list of CCAs available, and where they should go to audition.

"Well," said Arwen as she read the posters, "I'm going for Choir. And Drama. What of you?"

"ODAC," said Aragorn.

Arwen turned to stare at him. "Pardon?" she said.

Aragorn repeated himself.

"I've never heard of it."

Aragorn sighed. "Outdoors Activity Club."

Arwen suddenly seemed to recall the name. Her eyes filled with alarm. "But…that's terrible! _Adar_ says that it's one of the most dreadful clubs you can join – people in it get _injured_."

"I expect they get injured in Drama too," retorted Aragorn. "By falling scenery."

Arwen sighed. "Well, if I can't persuade you otherwise. Good luck."

They parted.

But it is not our fate to follow either of them at the moment, so instead we shall take our tale to where Legolas was standing in a fenced-off section of a grassy headland and glaring bitterly at Paris, and failing that, Haldir.

"You come to the wrong place?" inquired Legolas disdainfully. "This is _Archery_." The tone implied that Archery was a sacred act of which laymen and sissies like Paris should not even be thinking of partaking of.

"Yes, _Archery_," returned Paris irritably. "What I want to know is why _you're_ here – shouldn't you be joining Girls' Brigade or something?"

Legolas's face twisted, and things would have been ugly if the seniors had not appeared on the other side of the fence.

They were a motley lot, especially garb-wise; some of them were wearing leather tunics, while the one woman among them seemed to be mainly wearing blue tattoos. Several appeared to be clad in tights. All were carrying bow-and-arrows.

The woman with the blue markings came over and stared at them critically. Eventually she said, "Good day, first-years. I am Guinevere. Come in."

She unlaced the fencing and stood aside to let them pass. As Legolas passed her, he was suddenly given to think of what Elizabeth might look like if she decided to live like a barbarian for a month.

A group of men, dressed in (very tasteless) tights and singing (very badly) looked up with amusement when they saw the three of them. "Oo-oh, _juniors_," said the leader of the lot, in what appeared to be a failed attempt at an evil cackle. He added for good measure, "Wheeee!"

Guinevere rolled her eyes. "Shut up, Robin!" she yelled, and then leaning in aside to the dark, unkempt fellow who sat in the shade of a tree, "Really, Tristan, I don't know what's going to come of our third-year batch."

"Right," she continued, thrusting a bow and a quiver of arrows brusquely at Paris, "let's see what you can do."

"Er," said Paris nervously, "wh-what do I shoot at?"

Guinevere waved her hand vaguely at the large expanse of jungle/grassland/lake below the headland. "Anything. Just to see how far your range is."

"But…" Paris reflected on this in consternation. "I might hit somebody!"

Guinevere sighed. Legolas smirked. Paris noted the latter with some measure of indignance, and pulled the bowstring taut and let fly. The arrow soared across the headland and plunged in an arc over the edge. The men-in-tights, who had been crouched at the edge, let out a cry as it went past. "Flew over!" "I think it hit the jungle!" "No, not that far, probably the track……" "I said jungle!" "No, track, you fool……"

Guinevere ignored the shouting and passed the bow to Legolas, indicating with a jerk of the head the depression in the grass where Paris had stood and drawn.

Legolas stepped forward. A breeze picked up on cue, sending golden locks a-tumbling back over his shoulder. He closed a hand around the grip, took the arrow in the other, nocked it to the bowstring and drew it back.

He looked out at the landscape, searching – until he saw the distant sparkle of the lake in the jungle's midst. There. That was far enough.

And then the arrow was flying, slicing the breeze like a knife through grease, straighter than a metre-rule, truer than a valentine –

– out on the lake, Jack Sparrow watched with amusement as an arrow flashed out of nowhere and pinned the Head of the Sailing Club to his boat's mast by his sailor hat.

Legolas smirked sideways at Paris, as Guinevere gave a rare and approving curl of the lip, and the third-years applauded and whooped wildly – although he didn't know the latter was not so much due to his archer's prowess but because they had suddenly realised how good he would look in tights.

* * *

The Drama Club auditions were being held in a two-storey building that looked like a contraption of collapsible green tin. It smelled of damp and dust, and the overall façade gently suggested spider-webs and not-dusting-under-the-tables, which was more or less what went on inside.

Elizabeth Swann regarded this all in trepidation, before she ventured into the shade of the green tin roof. Arwen was standing at the base of the green tin stairs like an angel at the foot of a green tin Christmas tree, and staring up the steps cautiously.

"You're here for auditions too?" inquired Elizabeth conversationally. Inside she was really thinking: _Oh, damnit, that's some tough competition _……

Arwen nodded. "Do you think we should go upstairs?"

Elizabeth looked around. "Are we the only ones?"

"Looks like it," answered Arwen. "Funny, I'd have thought that – "

"Hey, are you going for Drama auditions?"

There was no mistaking those cheerful voices. Merry and Pippin had popped up out of nowhere like helpful pixies.

"Ah, you'll have no problem," said Pippin knowingly. "Our Christine and Carlotta."

"We're hoping to get in as comic relief, us," explained Merry.

"'Cos we're so annoying we're funny," added Pippin.

"Shut up! You're giving them the wrong impression!"

"Is this, like, the drama club auditions?" came an even-less-welcome voice.

Elizabeth rolled her eyes, and was surprised when Arwen did it at the same time.

Lili Frond was looking more hot-pink than ever. If she was hoping to make a strong first impression, it was certainly a very blinding one. Even glancing at her left spots of glaring pink on the aftervision.

She wasn't alone. Chix Verbil had come too. He had dug out a pair of sunglasses from somewhere. They clashed with his skin tone.

Arwen opened her mouth to make some carefully neutral comment, when a door banged upstairs and a figure appeared on the landing, peering down at them. "Auditions, is it?" he called irritably. "My, my. Well, are you coming upstairs or not? We haven't got all day."

They hastened upstairs. The speaker, when they reached the second level landing, turned out to be a dark-skinned person in a trench coat, sporting a dandyish ponytail. He ran his eyes swiftly over the group, and then his face split into a grin. He had an amazing smile. 'Huge' was an understatement. It had all the eye-catching qualities of a Sunkist orange.

The apparition executed an elaborate bow. "I am," he said elegantly, "the Marquis de Carabas, at your service."

No one was very certain how they should respond to that. "Er," hazarded Arwen, "is that your stage name?"

"The only name that has ever served me," retorted the marquis de Carabas. "But now." He turned on his heel and flung the green door of the studio open. "You might want to come in, before the roof starts to rain."

The studio floor was carpeted, but this possibly only served to disguise the communities of organisms living in it.

It was a dimly-lit room, with several stage blocks lying haphazardly all over the place and people lying haphazardly all over them. There appeared to be some sort of argument going on in one corner.

"……but it's my script, so I get to do the casting!"

"But you can't bloody cast for nuts!" yelled the other. He was shorter than the first speaker, and he fitted the description 'boyish good looks' down to the ingenuous blue eyes. "You always cast Ann!"

"You always cast _Satine_!" retorted the first speaker. If his opponent was boyishly good-looking, then he was darkly brooding. He was tall, and his nose was nothing if not prominent. "I'll remind you that she starred in the last performance!"

"Ann doesn't fit the role," snapped the second speaker.

"Neither does Satine!" came the angry rejoinder.

They both stopped speaking to draw breath, and glared at each other. Despite their vast differences in looks, they both had similar dress sense – open-collared shirts with rolled up sleeves, and pencils. The first speaker was fiddling with his pencil; the second one had stuck his behind his ear.

Breaths drawn, they both went at it again.

"It's not fair you always take a hand in casting!"

"Well, I'm your senior; doesn't that count for something?"

"_Stop pulling rank on me!_"

The marquis ignored the commotion and strode past the arguing pair towards a monstrous sofa that took up half a wall. It had been hideously upholstered in orange fur. The auditionees trailed after him, for lack of anything better to do.

The marquis stopped and stared critically at a skinny peroxide-blonde who was lounging on the sofa arm.

"Get off my sofa, Roxie," he ordered.

The blonde made a face at him. "It's not _your_ sofa."

"Is too," replied the marquis loftily. "Get off and don't sit on it again if you know what's good for you, or I'll see to it that your hair turns the same colour as our staircase."

Roxie pouted, annoyed. "You let Ann sit on it."

"I like Ann," said the marquis simply. "She's ornamental."

Roxie slid off irately. "You better not let Jack hear you say that," she added by way of warning, perching on top of a random bar-stool.

The marquis deposited himself gracefully on the sofa, an action which finished with him reclining full-length on it, black motorcycle boots propped up on one furry orange arm. "What's he going to do, hit me with his typewriter?"

A blonde girl in a white dress, who had been trying to interject protests into the argument, appeared to give up and came over instead. The marquis waved a languorous hand at her. "What ho, Miss Darrow?" He appeared quite pleased at the rhyme.

The girl sighed. "Neither's giving ground," she said. "I've _said_, I really don't mind if I don't get the role – I don't even fit the role, really – but Jack won't hear a word. It's a headache."

"Scriptwriters," said the marquis, sounding quite sadistic about it.

"What's going on?" asked Elizabeth, who had lost track long ago.

The girl appeared to notice them for the first time. "Oh! Are these the auditionees?"

"We are," affirmed Arwen cautiously.

Their senior smiled. "Welcome to Drama Club, then. I'm Ann Darrow, your senior by one year. Don't mind the chaos – it's an everyday thing in our club. They're just having some difficulties over casting our next play."

"Scriptwriters," repeated the marquis. "It's a nightmare, having more than one in a theatre company. They're always at each other's throats. Especially," here he looked slyly at Ann, "if they have _favourites_."

"I don't know what you're talking about," huffed Ann.

The marquis pointed at the one with the pencil behind his ear. "Christian over there's our vice-chair. He was all set to be Chairperson of Choir, except that he's hopelessly in love with _our _Chairperson Satine, so he moved over here entirely to be resident scriptwriter."

"And the other one?" asked Elizabeth, intrigued.

"Oh, that's Jack Driscoll," said the marquis dismissively. "He's the Other Scriptwriter. He's obsessed with dear Ann here – every role he writes, he writes for her."

"Oh, do shut up," snapped Ann uncomfortably.

The marquis spread his hands. "It's common knowledge, darling. You might as well let the – "

The door banged open again, and a young woman entered. She had dark hair cut in a classy bob, and the strut in her walk screamed _diva_. She had huge dark eyes, her eyelids loaded so thickly with black eyeshadow that if she blinked too fast, her make-up would probably remain suspended.

She paused in her stride next to Roxie's bar-stool, and looked down her nose at the blonde, who pretended she hadn't noticed the newcomer. "Hey, kiddo," said the black-haired girl in a throaty growl, "that's _my_ bar-stool."

"Who died and made you diva, _Velma_?" retorted Roxie cattishly.

Velma appeared to consider this. While she did, she calmly lit a cigarette that had been illegal the last time the first-years checked. "Well, certainly not you, _wannabe_."

Roxie leapt up with a gasp of fury. "You low-brow tramp!"

"Shut your face, hussy," snapped Velma, spitting out smoke in her direction.

"You dirty chiseler!"

"Painted jezebel!"

"Cheap floozy!"

"_Airhead_."

"Why, you goddamn bi – "

The marquis shook his head sadly. "It's always like this. Every session. A fellow can't get any peace around here, can he?" He honoured the first-years with a wide grin. "Do me a favour, one of you." He pointed at a trio of suave-looking third-years clustering on some nearby stage blocks. One of them was crunching insouciantly on a cheese-dripping tortilla. "If you steal his Nachos chips for me," went on the marquis with an evil grin, "I shall put in marks for you under Stagehand Material."

Merry and Pippin, looking delighted, broke away from the group and began to plan an attack strategy.

"You're incurable," said Ann sadly, and went back to the scriptwriters' quarrel, which was astonishingly still going strong. Her attempts to break it up only appeared to fuel it further, and the noise level in the studio was crescendo-ing to an unbearable level when suddenly, the door opened.

It wasn't flung open, but opened slowly and gracefully, in a way reminiscent of the Lady Galadriel. In stepped a young woman – a stunningly beautiful young woman. She was of incredibly statuesque proportion, with strawberry-blond curls cascading down her arms, and every feature was that of a classic goddess. She paused in the doorway, one arm extended in a way that displayed the whiteness of her skin, and cast a smouldering look around the room.

Everybody immediately stopped arguing to look at her.

"Am I late?" asked this vision of allure in the most musical of voices. "I _do_ hope I haven't kept you waiting."

"Of course not, Satine," said Christian. His voice sounded unnaturally dry.

"So dreadfully sorry." Satine, Chairperson of the Drama Club, swept past her subjects until she reached the group of potential members, which she favoured with a breath-taking smile. "We'll start auditions now, shall we?"

The auditionees, throats dry, nodded.

"We'll start with you, my dear," said Satine to Elizabeth, who blinked. "The rest of you, stand outside till you're called."

As her compatriots trooped out, Satine turned the force of her dazzling smile on Elizabeth, who reeled. "We'll be doing an impromptu test on you," she explained. "That means, we give you a scenario and a senior to act with, and we see how well you do. It's that simple."

She made a languid motion with her hand, and the floor automatically cleared, leaving Elizabeth alone on the carpet. A row of three desks had suddenly appeared in front of her, with Christian on the left scribbling furiously and the marquis de Carabas reclining indolently in a computer chair on the right. He winked at her.

Satine took her place between both of them, tucked a strand of red hair behind a ear and picked up a pen. "Ann, Jack, act with her."

Ann Darrow and Jack Driscoll got up and stood on either side of Elizabeth. Both gave her encouraging smiles.

"Scenarios please, Rusty," announced Satine.

The consumer of Nachos Chips got up from the sidelines and passed the judges a top hat full of pieces of paper. On the way back to his seat, he tossed Elizabeth a grin. It looked rather shark-like.

Christian reached into the hat and picked out a piece of paper. He read it, then clapped a hand over his mouth to stifle his laughter.

The marquis took it from his shaking fingers and raised an eyebrow at it. Then with a perfectly straight face, he said, "This is your scenario. Ann and Jack are your parents. You have to tell them over dinner that you're lesbian. Okay, you may start now."

* * *

Aragorn trekked through the underbrush. He had left the beaten track a while ago, and had been pushing through mysterious clinging bushes for nearly fifteen minutes already. The small map printed on the back of the ODAC flyers wasn't much help. He was wondering if part of the auditions was actually finding the location.

He was about to give in to Arwen's philosophy and turn back, when he heard voices.

There turned out to be a clearing ahead, with three other fellows in it. The first was chewing a school-contraband cigar. The second was chewing a straw. The third was chewing his hair.

"What say we go back to school, eh?" said the first. He was tall and lanky, regarded the world through narrow blue eyes, and spoke with a sardonic and accented drawl. As he spoke, he reached down and scratched the ears of a thin, shabby hare crouched beside the rock upon which he sat. "There ain't nobody coming. Ain't nobody come last year, and we all done made fools of ourselves, sitting out here waiting for nobody."

"Two years in a row," sighed the second, spitting the straw out. "Can't get a CCA with an attendance worse than that."

"Mmrlf," supplemented the third.

"Where's our chairpserson, anyway?" went on the first. "And the vice-chairs. Not, of course, that I mind if they don't turn up. That Lara is a real slavedriver when it comes to – "

"To what? Morning drills?"

This was a new voice. It was laced with honey and superiority, and it was coming from somewhere overhead. All three immediately flinched, and then glanced up. There was a slim young woman in black tank top and outdoors shorts, long hair pulled back into a ponytail, balancing on a branch. She was amazingly attractive, with the sort of lips that looked like they had taken an overdose of silicon injections.

"Hello, boys," said Lara Croft. She somersaulted smoothly off the branch; all three flinched again as her trek boots smacked into the ground before them. She nodded to each of them in turn. "Hello, Lee. Hello, Rick. Hello, George."

"Hello, Lara," returned Lee, recovering his composure. "Thought you weren't coming – you're pretty late, huh?"

"It's a woman's prerogative to be late."

This time, the voice came from behind Aragorn. He spun around and came face to face with an extraordinarily tall young woman: she was an inch taller than himself. She was astoundingly and dangerously beautiful; her skin was the colour of burnt caramel, her hair tawny as a lion's mane. He had no idea how long she had been standing there; he probably wouldn't have been able to tell till she had spoken. Her dappled leather clothes were mottled in grey and brown; if they hadn't been standing a few inches apart she wouldn't have been there at all.

"Hello, Hunter," called Lara as the newcomer steered Aragorn into the clearing. "There. No need to be pessimistic, boys."

Lee addressed Hunter with mock severity. "You've been hanging out too damn much with Mina Murray. That's her adage."

Hunter shrugged. Her bare shoulders were laden with more sinew than most large cats. "I don't consider Mina bad company, Scoresby. I consider _myself_ bad company."

Lee shrugged back at her. "You know what Quatermain would say."

"Speaking of Quatermain," continued Rick, "where _is_ the fellow?"

Lara Croft made her mouth a perfect ellipse of surprise. "Why, Mr. O'Connell, how _uninformed_ of you. Allan Quatermain was shot in the foot this Monday. He and James Bond were put into the Special Ward in the Hospital Wing. Bond escaped yesterday through the ventilation, but I think our dear Allan is still too injured to walk. Therefore, Hunter and I will be taking ODAC practice for today."

"Poor Quatermain," mused Rick. Then, as the impact of the second sentence sank in, he started in alarm. "_Not_ you!"

"Whyever not?" inquired Lara pleasantly. "This is so exciting. And look, we have a new recruit. I'm sure he's absolutely raring to go for his audition, aren't you, Mr…"

"My name's Aragorn," said Aragorn, slightly disturbed.

"Aragorn," concluded Lara. "Now, your audition will be simple. We're just going to do what we normally do every week – all _you_ have to do is keep up."

"Oh," said Aragorn. "That's all?"

Lee Scoresby made a face at him. "You're going to wish you never said that, kid, not when Lara's leading the expedition. Quatermain preserve our souls."

* * *

"It's a pity they don't have Quidditch," lamented Harry as he and Ron strode across the softball field. "Why don't they have Quidditch?"

"Acrophobia, maybe," said Ron philosophically. "Still, it was bloody brilliant, the way you fielded that pitch. They took you in like a shot."

"Still," said Harry sadly, "Softball isn't Quidditch."

Ron gave him a commiserating look, as they entered the cool of the building. Hermione was waiting for them at the foot of the spiral staircase.

"I see you got into Softball," she said, by way of congratulation. "Was it easy?"

Harry shrugged. "More or less."

"Well, _I_ hope I get into ISGS," said Ron devoutly. "Are their auditions hard, do you know?"

"We'll find out, won't we?" Hermione turned and went up the stairs in the direction of C3-03. They trailed after her.

On the third floor they encountered Artemis Fowl, who was looking uncharacteristcally cheerful. Hermione stopped and regarded him with a gaze laced with suspicion.

"Well," she snapped, "_how_ many?"

"Two so far," said Artemis with cheerful calm. "Robotics and Advanced Math Club."

"_I've_ joined Library and Tribune," retorted Hermione. She hugged her perennial books to her chest and strode on down the corridor; however, noticeably slowing down her usual locomotive pace to keep step with Artemis's casual saunter. Harry and Ron, who were getting used to Hermione's demand for intellectual competition/conversation, fell back and observed the proceedings from a distance.

"Library?" sniffed Artemis scornfully. "I wasn't even aware that was a _CCA_."

"Never mind that it's been defunct for ten years," rejoined Hermione, anxious to defend her new CCA. "Goodness knows Evelyn needs someone who can actually memorise the whole Dewey Decimal system. Anyway, she promoted me to vice-chair."

"Because there's no one else in the CCA."

"That is beside the point!" exclaimed Hermione hotly. She directed her glare at the sizeable bunch of pens that Artemis's pale fingers were curled around. "Someone's running out of stationery fast, is he?"

"Oh, the Math Club gave them to me," replied Artemis airily. "It's sort of an emblem of esteem, you see, a form of accolade, giving pens. They were very impressed by the method through which I disproved John Nash's cosecant y-intercept hypothesis."

Hermione decided to leave that topic alone, because she clearly wasn't as familiar as he at mathematical jargon. "So, joining a third one already?"

"I was considering the International Strategy Game Society," said Artemis smoothly. "I received a personal invitation from the chairperson herself."

"I know what ISGS stands for, I plan to join too," responded Hermione testily. "So does Ron."

Artemis appeared to remember Ron's existence. "Ah, yes. Pleasant, I'm sure."

"Here we are," pointed out Ron, who resented being regarded as being of average intelligence.

C-303 was a modest, unassuming room filled with desks, upon which various strategy board games had been set up. Jean Grey greeted them at the door; Hermione was annoyed by the way with which she addressed Artemis as an old friend.

"You may audition through any of the games present," she explained, indicating the assortment of games on the desks. "You play one game against one of us. Artemis, if I recall correctly, will be auditioning through chess?"

"Indeed," concurred Artemis graciously.

"Me too," said Ron, eager to be in on the action. "I'm Ron Weasley."

"Hermione Granger," announced Hermione, putting on her most social smile. "Do you have Scrabble here?"

The players were paired off. Harry took a seat in the corner and watched Ron sit down nervously opposite Waverly Jong, the American-Chinese vice-chair of ISGS, who sized him up coolly across the chessboard, and then made her move.

Jean Grey called over to a group of second-years who were playing some ancient board game that involved complicated dice. "Tiamat, Simeon – you lot! Two of you come over and play Scrabble. That's enough Twenty Squares for now." There was some bickering about who should go, but in the end the thin Jewish boy, Simeon, and the small girl Tiamat, were shoved out. Simeon grinned uncomfortably at Hermione as he selected his tiles.

Jean herself played Artemis.

Artemis stared, stone-faced, as his opponent moved a rook to challenge his knight. He ignored the threat, instead concentrating on pulling his pieces into an elaborate formation.

Jean brushed a strand of reddish hair out of her eyes. Her rook made a sudden turn in direction and snagged his bishop, disrupting the formation. Artemis blinked, startled.

_She's reading you_, piped up a faint voice in the back of his head. _She's looking at what you're thinking six moves ahead._

That was it. Artemis shut his eyes for a brief second, searching the glimmering recesses of his mind – and located the invading presence.

_Let me _do_ something,_ shrieked the muffled Voice. _I can stop her_!

Artemis calculated the risks. On one hand, he was averse to letting the Voice out again. On the other, nothing overly dangerous could occur, especially if Jean was at hand.

He reached out mental fingers and flicked a cerebral switch.

The Voice soared out in a cackle, blazing a brilliant firewall across his brain so bright that he nearly flinched. It surrounded the threads of his thought processes, strengthening its defenses against the probing outside mind.

_Nyeeheeheeheehee!_ screeched the Voice. _Now I shall_ –

Its words were abruptly cut off as Artemis turned the invisible switch off, and became no more than a muffled shouting in the back of his head.

Across the chessboard, Jean Grey blinked once, twice, and then gave an grin of acknowledgment. "Clever of you," she said, moving the rook.

Artemis took the rook with his knight and reassembled his formation. In three more steps he had won.

"Impressive," admitted Jean. "You're in – you were actually in from the beginning, because we need more telepaths. But your chessplaying is surprisingly extraordinary."

"Thank you, mademoiselle," said Artemis politely. He turned to watch Hermione win – as expected – the Scrabble game, and shake hands with Tiamat and Simeon. Ron had lost his game to Waverly Jong, but he was still accepted, on account of Waverly's appraising review on his strategy.

"Welcome to ISGS," said Jean Grey cheerfully. "Training sessions are every Wednesday afternoon in this classroom. See you then."

"How was it?" inquired Harry as Ron exited the classroom, looking worn out.

"That Waverly Jong is a bloody vicious player," complained Ron. "She's got all these ghastly strategies, wipe out all your formations."

"Well, she _is_ Vice-chair," Harry reminded him. "Where's Hermione?"

"Probably gone to find a fourth CCA," said Ron sardonically. "_I_ don't care to follow her. Let's go and get some tea."

**End of Chapter**

_ Next chapter coming…_**CCAs and the Clash of the Seniors II**

Characters appearing in this chapter:

Guinevere and Tristan from _King Arthur_

Robin Hood and his Merry Men from _Men in Tights_

The marquis de Carabas and Hunter from _Neverwhere_ (Neil Gaiman)

Roxie Hart and Velma Kelly from _Chicago_

Ann Darrow and Jack Driscoll from _King Kong_

Christian and Satine from _Moulin Rouge_

Rusty Ryan, Tess and Danny Ocean from _Ocean's Eleven_

Lee Scoresby from _His Dark Materials _(Philip Pullman)

Rick O'Connell from _The Mummy_

George from _George of the Jungle_

Lara Croft from _Lara Croft_

Allan Quatermain and Mina Murray from _The League of the Extraordinary Gentlemen_ (Alan Moore)

John Nash from _A Beautiful Mind_

Jean Grey from _X-Men_

Waverly Jong from _The Joy Luck Club _(Amy Tan)

Tiamat and Simeon from _The Babylon Game_ (Katherine Roberts)

With references to Alfian Sa'at's _Yesterday My Classmate Died_, adapted by Amanda Chong for the English Language Drama Society.


	30. CCAs and the Clash of the Seniors II

**A&A&A Boarding School**

Authoresses' Note: This chapter could stand on its own, but is actually meant to be half of the whole chapter of CCAO. We beg that you read it as such.

Several people have requested that we focus on some of the less brought out characters. In response to that, we say: we try, but as authors we have favourites, and we will tend to focus on the ones that we think we can develop better. Some of them, like the thirty-four other people in Lost, are there as filler. We try to utilize as many point-of-views as possible, but sometimes there can be only so much one can write. We are sorry if we sacrifice some individuals for the greater good.

BellaLestrange13 pointed out a mistake in our Chinese in Chapter 26. Lydia would like to apologize for that; she had noticed it around the finish of 27, but didn't dare replace the chapter because she had lost the original file. We are Chinese, though we're not particularly good at it. We try.

Hello Claire, says Lydia.

To zareen, who once more reviewed profusely, we express extreme delight at finding that other revolting sofas exist as a trend in Drama Clubs across the world. Do you, by any chance, have a coke-soaked carpet and an exploding air-conditioner?

**30. CCAs and the Clash of the Seniors II**

Will was quite surprised when Jack turned up. "I thought you joined Sailing?"

Jack shrugged. "Two CCAs can't hurt, mate. So…you'll be lookin' for the Fencing place, eh?"

Will nodded hopelessly. "I can't find it. Do you think it's underground?"

Ten minutes later, Will, still in shock from Jack's amazing navigational skill, found himself staring down a stone corridor lit with flickering flames. He put out a hand to feel for the wall, and was intrigued to feel a 'Z' carved into the stone.

"Look, Jack, it's a – "

"Boo," said a voice.

Will shrieked. Jack yelled.

Their assailant laughed. A dark figure detached itself from the shadows, revealing itself to be a blonde third-year. Like all fencers, he wore stylish black, and dangled a rapier idly from his fingers.

"Nathaniel d'Artagnan, m'sieurs," he said, bowing with a deep flourish. "Pardon my little jest there. Do you seek an audition with our captain?"

"Aye," said Jack, "we do seek auditions. As in, we seek _to_ audition. That the same as what you was sayin'?"

"Let me take you in," said d'Artagnan, who did not appear to bother unravelling the meaning of this first-year's speech.

Will grew increasingly puzzled as d'Artagnan led them deeper into the lair of the fencers. After the first corridor the flickering torches ceased to continue, and they had to follow the sound of d'Artagnan talking as he felt his way along the walls. He was also quite sure he could hear running water somewhere.

Jack, who was paying more attention to d'Artagnan himself, and being navigationally-inclined, realised that d'Artagnan was actually following a pattern here: the way to the centre of this maze was marked out by the line of 'Z's carved into the wall. Jack grinned, in a darkness where there was no light to glint off his teeth.

Eventually light hit them. They were in a cavern filled with the sound of rushing water, and also that of the clash of blades and voices raised in banter. D'Artagnan was hailed by three others, who had been practising at hitting masking-taped crosses on the velvet dummies set up in a corner of the cavern. Their guide promptly abandoned them to join his comrades.

Will and Jack stared around. They were able to recognise Westley and Inigo; not a meagre feat, because the two seniors were currently balanced atop a pair of stepladders in the midst of the underground waterfall running down one side of the cavern. They were both holding a string of lightbulbs, and appeared to be taking orders from a young lady of stunning appearance in an equally stunning dress, who was standing on dry ground, out of the way of the spray.

"Have you found the power source yet?" she was saying.

"No!" howled Inigo. "Elena, if you do not mind me asking, _why_ is there a power source in the waterfall?"

"Ask Bruce Wayne," said Elena dismissively, "he fixed up this place before Alejandro took it over. Have you seen Alejandro, by the way?"

"No," burbled Westley as water rushed over his face. "I haven't seen anything but bloody waterfall for the past hour. Can we _please_ do the lights another day, Elena?"

Elena de la Vega appeared to consider this. "Very well. Come down, the two of you." As the two second-years sighed in relief and began to climb down from the stepladders, she went on, "But how are we supposed to fence in near darkness?"

"You mean flickering torchlight," pointed out Westley.

"The torches are a fire hazard," Elena told him sternly. "I repeat, how are we supposed to fence in near darkness?"

"_No sé_," said Inigo, shrugging. "If I can fence with my left hand I can fence in near darkness. No big deal."

"'Scuse me," interrupted Jack, "I understand that you folks might be havin' some trouble with your fixtures, but we're seekin' to audition, savvy? So where might we audition?"

Elena seemed to be trying to remember something. "Ah…ah…auditions, _sí_!" And then, "Where in blasted hell is _Alejandro_?"

Elena de la Vega was one of those women who look infinitely more lovely when they are angry. Jack took the opportunity to admire what her neckline left exposed, which, given the tendency of Spanish aristocratic gowns of that era, was quite substantial.

Her imminent explosion was interrupted by a figure bounding through the waterfall and striding (and dripping) across the cavern floor towards the group, spreading his arms. "Elena, my dear. Am I late?"

Elena's face suddenly took on a scarily deceptive smile. Wearing that expression, she turned and swept up to the newcomer, skirts trailing over his wet footprints, until their faces were barely inches. "Yes, Alejandro. You are late. In fact, you are _so late I could kick you into next week, and how dare you use that tone on me, and Professor McGonagall just gave me a dressing-down about your nasty habit with those 'Z's, and – "_

"Lovers' quarrel again," sighed Westley. He seated himself on a convenient rock and tried to wring water out of his shirt sleeve. "So," he addressed Will conversationally, "you look good in black, do you?"

"Er, more or less."

"Very good," said Jack smugly. "Damned good."

"That's nice," said Westley absently. "I expect you'll get to audition when they're done. So you can go do warm-ups, or whatever you need to do to get ready." This to Inigo: "Are they at the slapping stage yet?"

"Coming," said Inigo, watching with fascination. "Coming, coming…"

The blow echoed around the cavern.

"Ow," said Inigo in sympathy.

"Who hit who?" inquired Westley, emptying water out of a boot.

"Who do you think? She hit him, of course," retorted Inigo, sitting down and squeezing water out of his headscarf.

"I," said Westley placidly, "am personally very glad that Buttercup is not a violent woman." He emptied water out of his other boot, and started on wringing his socks.

"You and your Buttercup," sniffed Inigo, getting up to hold his sleeves over a flickering torch.

"You need a girl, Inigo," said Westley reflectively. He glanced up at the quarrelling couple, who seemed to be calming down slightly. "There, they should be done around now. Solved your differences already?" he called to Alejandro and Elena, who were coming down from the waterfall area. The former was rubbing his cheek.

"Go away, Westley," said Alejandro facetiously. He had taken off the mask and the black headscarf he had worn during his entrance, revealing a head of attractively tousled hair. Being completely saturated had no effect on his debonair carriage.

"You may," he said munificently, "call me Zorro."

"But no one else does," put in Elena spitefully, "so don't bother. He's just plain Alejandro."

Alejandro cast her an exasperated look, and went on. "Well, let's get started? Who'd like to fence with Elena?"

Jack put up his hand.

"Right," said Alejandro, "you'll fence with me. The other kid – what's your name? Will? You fence with Elena."

Jack, looking disappointed at being thwarted, nevertheless took up a foil from the rack. Will found himself facing the beautiful vice-chair of Fencing. The thought did not console him, as it might have Jack.

"Not bad," said Elena, after they had sparred for some time. "I see we've had some prior training, no?" She increased her pace and lunged. Will hastily parried it, backing swiftly and sidestepping her. Elena smiled, like a satisfied Siamese. "Interesting footwork, Master Turner." She lunged again; Will spotted the feint in time and dodged the sneak hit. He lunged; Elena twisted her shoulders so his blade went past easily, hooked his hilt and sent the foil flying. Will prepared to dive for his sword, but froze as Elena's blade tip touched his chin.

"On a whole, impressive for a beginner," concluded Elena. With a flick of her wrist the sword was at her side again. Will, who had a very good view of her astoundingly wide and elaborate skirts, wondered how the hell a woman fenced as well as she did in those. "We will be delighted to welcome you in our circle, William Turner."

She swept off to watch Jack and Alejandro finish their bout. Will trailed after her.

Jack, naturally, was accepted as well, after they had concluded. "What do you do on Sundays?" he asked hopefully as Elena collected their swords from them.

Elena de la Vega looked down her nose at him. "_Senor_," she said loftily, "I am three years your senior, and my boyfriend is a master swordsman. Fancy though your footwork may be, I advise you not to go up against him." With a swish of expansive skirt she swept off, accepting Alejandro's proffered arm and walking him towards the waterfall, the two of them discussing lighting.

"You should stop trying to steal other people's girlfriends, Jack," said Will pointedly.

"Not my fault all the good ones are already taken," retorted Jack sullenly.

* * *

Lara Croft had invented a new form of self-abseiling, assumedly when bored in Physics class. She had got Hunter to try it out with her during break, and surprisingly it had worked – at least for the two of them.

It employed the concept of the pulley system, and involved tying a rope around one's waist, throwing the rope around a tree branch or rock projection or some other support, holding the free end of the rope in one's hands, and then jumping off one's selected cliff, lowering oneself to the ground by releasing handfuls of rope. She was particularly proud at how self-sufficient the theory was.

It sounded fairly simple and practical when she had explained it on the cliff's edge. In actuality it was very different, when one took into consideration the fact that most people have problems lifting their body weight, the distance from the top of the cliff to its base, and ropeburn.

So far the only casualty had been George, who had accidentally let go and plunged through ten metres of screaming freefall until he had managed to grab the rope again and stop his descent. While this method did indeed speed up the process, it was liable to give one serious ropeburn. Aragorn's hands were beginning to take on the state in which they passed Javert's classes, and he had no wish to ameliorate the damage.

His arms ached. He was no longer avoiding looking at the ground, because it had been there long enough for his fear of it to diffuse, and because even the ground was a nice change from rock face.

Beside him, Hunter lowered herself steadily. Her hands must be leather, to resist ropeburn so well. They probably were. Aragorn tried to flex his elbow and wondered how she had got her nickname, if nickname it was.

She glanced at him once, casually; the rest of the time she ignored him, concentrating on releasing section after section of rope. Aragorn focused on his: the blistering slither of rope through his fingers, the aching clench in his wrist, the arms straining the tendons across the back of his shoulders so hard that he wanted to snip his nerves into two, just to erase that strain.

Abseiling left no time for talking. ODACians didn't talk much.

Another screaming shot, and the bullet ripped through the target paper, missing the centre by half an inch. Holly lowered the rifle with aching arms as one of her auditioners winched the target paper back and nipped it off the hook. "It's damned close," said the tall black-haired Asian. "Well, Cleo? We've tried her on air rifle, pistol, revolver, almost everything in the arsenal. I think Bond himself would be satisfied."

* * *

Holly massaged her right wrist and watched her four auditioners. The three third-years, who also seemed to be indissoluble Siamese triplets, had introduced themselves as Natalie, Dylan and Alex. Their senior, who had not said a word to Holly yet, was a deceptively girlish Singaporean who carried a tri-barrelled rifle easily under one arm. They called her Cleopatra Wong.

Cleopatra Wong slung the rifle onto a convenient shelf and eyed Holly critically. Finally she said, "I think she's good enough. Let's have her."

Natalie, the blonde, who had taken a liking to Holly on sight, squealed happily and clapped her hands. Later, Dylan would tell Holly that Natalie was like that with most people.

At that point, James Bond fell through the ceiling.

To give him credit, he recovered his composure amazingly fast. Brushing plaster off his clothes, the Firearms Club Captain rose to his feet, his suave air only slightly marred by the fact that his left foot was in a cast.

"Good afternoon, ladies," said James Bond, as if he had just strolled in through the door. "How are you managing without me?"

"Oh, very fine, very fine indeed," responded Cleopatra Wong, batting her eyelids a graceful three times. "James, this is our new recruit Holly Short."

Bond regarded Holly.

"Bit, uh, short, she," he commented.Holly resisted the urge to seriously eyeball him.

"She can reach the range top if we give her a box," remarked Dylan, who had half her hair dyed violent purple. "Not a prob."

Bond shrugged. "Very well, we'll have the girl. Holly, is it? Pretty name. Pretty face, too."

Holly shook off the half-hearted attempt at flirting – she suspected it was involuntary habit – and left the firing range.

She met Éowyn coming back from the netball courts. "I still can't understand how you're going to handle two CCAs," Holly told her. "Especially if one of them is a uniform group."

"I always wanted to join the NCC," said Éowyn, shrugging. "Closest I can get to being in the army. You get to yell, and crawl through bushes. You should have joined, it's your kind of thing."

"People might tread on me during drill," retorted Holly sarcastically.

They went to the Dining Hall to wait for the rest of the Company; there they found already present Achilles and the rest of the new soccer team members. Faramir glanced up from among their number as the two of them entered; Éowyn pointedly looked at the ceiling.

"Jocks," she muttered under her breath. Fortunately no one heard her.

Achilles glanced up as Briseis and Andromache approached, accompanied by Hector, who looked like he was feeling accomplished.

"So," remarked Achilles offhandedly, "how was Red Cross?"

"They said we were very enthusiastic about it," exclaimed Briseis, "and they look forward to taking us for flag-selling next Wednesday afternoon! It's really quite exciting."

"Ah," said Achilles. "Yeah."

"And of course we are closely affiliated with the National Cadet Corps," added Andromache, "so we will be seeing a lot of Hector."

Achilles found himself privately wishing that Hector had joined the soccer team, like the rest of the jocks.

Andromache inserted herself into his uneasy silence. "And _how_," she said patronizingly, "was _soccer_?"

"Spectacular," said Achilles sourly.

"You don't sound happy," observed Briseis with concern. "Was it soccer?"

"No."

"Is it…" pressed Briseis anxiously, "…the Red Cross thing?"

"Oh, _no_," put in Achilles hastily. "Not Red Cross. I love the Red Cross. I will fully support every donation drive you take part in."

Hector suddenly found himself picturing Briseis blithely presenting her donation tin to some hapless passerby, and Achilles grinning at the victim across her shoulder and making a threatening gesture behind her back.

"I think," he muttered to Andromache as Achilles and Briseis went off together, "that Briseis is going to have a very successful career Red Cross career."

* * *

Aragorn scrabbled for purchase on the muddy bank – his desperate fingers found a tree root and locked around it. His back muscles screamed as he strained upwards; not for the first time he wished he had a compass needle, so he could pinpoint the exact spot behind his neck that was radiating all this pain, and stab the needle into the centre of it.

The marsh relinquished him with a popping sound, and he flopped onto the bank like a grounded fish, breathing hard.

Beside him, Lee Scoresby was heaving a leg onto the bank. The rest of ODAC, bedraggled and mud-stained, clambered up in varying degrees of exhaustion. Lara Croft looked astoundingly spry.

Aragorn's spinning mind observed detachedly that they were all more or less brown; it looked like the earth had just sprouted bipedal forms. Hunter, who had been mostly brown in the first place, had just turned a few shades darker.

"I think two miles of river should be far enough," mused Lara, looking back the way they had come. The cliff was a distant sliver. "Shall we walk back, or shall we try the treetop option?"

"Walk," chorused Rick, Lee and George simultaneously. Hunter merely smiled her faintly amused smile that she addressed the greater world with. Lara shrugged.

"Well, if you feel like having an easy day……"

They began the long trek back.

Even Lara Croft had limits, because she didn't request that they climb the cliff again. Instead they added an extra half an hour to the walk, and circled around its base until they found a gentler slope they could trek up.

Long, thought Aragorn, was an understatement. At least it was better than swimming.

When they were finally back where they had started, the other three hastily bid them farewell and made good their escape. Aragorn lingered, helping Lara and Hunter pack up the ropes.

When they had finished, he said, "What about me?"

Hunter appeared to have forgotten him temporarily. "You?"

"Yes," said Aragorn patiently. "Am I accepted, or am I not?"

Lara Croft turned appraising eyes on him. "Does the idea," she began, "of doing this every week actually appeal to you?"

Aragorn considered this. "It doesn't appeal," he concluded, "but if I do it long enough, eventually it might."

The two vice-chairs appeared to mull this over. Then Hunter went over to the faded duffel bag hidden underneath a bush and took out some objects that clinked. She tossed them to him, a karabiner and an air-transport-controller. Aragorn caught one in each hand.

"Bring them with you next week," she said, and her smile was caramel cognac. "We're hitting the rock walls Saturday."

Aragorn pocketed the two souvenirs, and watched the two of them walk away.

* * *

The Drama Club members not senior enough to be on the panel sat and sprawled on the studio's collection of computer chairs, couches, stage blocks – and in Velma's case, the bar-stool – and watched the auditions with the worldly air all veterans pick up along the way to seniority.

Rusty Ryan, who much to the marquis's regret had finished his Nachos chips without interruption, leaned back into his computer chair (which tipped an alarming forty-five degrees) and remarked, "She's not half bad, Danny."

"Mmm," replied his companion, who was seated cross-legged on a fraying coil mat. "Who was it that came up with the used pregnancy test kit scenario?"

"Velma, I think," said Rusty.

"Yeah," affirmed Velma from atop her bar-stool.

"Right," said Danny. "Damn funny."

"Thank _you_."

They watched the auditions go on for a while.

"Except," added Velma after some time, "I think the marquis added the bit about it being positive."

Danny stretched. "_I_ think," he said comfortably, "that Tess is having fun."

On the floor, Tess was yelling accusations at Arwen and driving her into quite convincing hysterics.

"Okay, that's enough, thank you," broke in Christian. "You're the last one, yes? If you'll just step outside, Arwen……"

As the door shut after her, Satine swivelled her chair around to face the group gathered on the sidelines. "Well, let's get going, shall we? Are there any violent objections to any of the auditionees?"

"The bimbo," spoke Danny and Rusty in unison.

"The bimbo," chorused the Drama Club in tones of equal revulsion.

The marquis nodded. "We just had to give her the scenario with the flesh-eating bats, didn't we?"

Christian shuddered. "My eardrums will never be the same again."

"Mind," supplemented Jack Driscoll, "there's nothing wrong with a good screamer."

"Yes," sighed Satine, "but you're supposed to _say_ things in between the screams."

"She's out, then," decided Christian, drawing a line through a name on the list.

Everyone breathed a sigh of relief.

"Not the green-skinned guy either," added the marquis de Carabas. "I hate it when people try to act cool."

His fellow judges gave him looks that indicated they thought it was what he did all the time.

"But I am good at it, am I not?" pointed out the marquis, reading their minds.

Christian shrugged and axed out Chix.

"I vote Elizabeth Swann in," said Satine. "The part where she said she was bisexual clinched it for me."

"How about the whatchamacallits, hobbits?" inquired Christian.

"They're going to be typecast," remarked Velma critically. "They'll be comic relief forever."

"Typecasting's always going on in this company," said the marquis dismissively. "For one, _I_ am always typecast. Four years I've been playing villains."

"Not really," mused Satine. "There was that play when you……what's its name, the one with the really long title……"

"Yesterday My Classmate Got Eaten," recalled Christian. "You were the geography teacher, weren't you?"

The marquis sighed nostalgically. "Oh, yes, the gay one. What fun we had – eh, Chris?"

Christian rolled his eyes.

"We're off the track again," observed Satine in dismay. "Why're we always doing this?"

"It's a Drama habit," declared the marquis proudly.

"Where _were_ we?" went on Satine, ignoring him. "Oh, Meriadoc and Peregrin. Shall we have them?"

"Yes," said the marquis. "Good Stagehand Material."

"And God knows that's important," agreed Christian devoutly. "And the last one……"

"She's going to be the One," said the marquis shortly.

Everyone stared at him.

"Erm?" prodded Christian meaningfully after a pause.

"'Tis my theory," elaborated the marquis loftily, "that there's a One in every year. You can identify them. They're usually very good-looking. Most of the time they have a boyfriend behind them, generally a scriptwriter."

"I beg your pardon?" said Jack Driscoll suspiciously.

The marquis sighed. "In my year it was Satine. In the year after that, it was Tess. In your year, Jack, it was Ann. Something about the presence."

"I get what you mean," murmured Christian thoughtfully. "Yes, I suppose next year it'll be her."

There was a short pause. Then Jack got up from his stage block. "Christian, can I talk to you for a second?"

Christian frowned, but followed his junior to a corner of the studio, where they conducted a hurried conversation accompanied by many gestures.

Ann looked disturbed. "I hope they're not going to start again," she said fervently.

Christian and Jack returned in record time. "We're taking Arwen," said Christian. "We're going to audition her for the leading role in the next play."

"The one that wasn't-Satine-wasn't-Ann," explained Jack.

"That one," agreed Christian. "We think she's it."

"Fine by me," said Satine graciously. "So…Elizabeth, Meriadoc, Peregrin and Arwen. Ann, go call them in."

As Ann got up and went over to open the door and call in the selected ones, Christian leaned over to the marquis. "You know your One theory?"

"Mm?" said the marquis, who was attempting to nick Velma's cigarette box without her noticing.

"Why aren't any of them male?"

The marquis thought about this, then shrugged and hooked the box with Satine's long ruler.

"Dear me," said Christian, more or less to himself. "I really hope it isn't our fault."

**End of Chapter**

_Next chapter coming…_**Masquerades and Mayhem**

Characters appearing in this chapter: 

D'Artagnan, Athos, Porthos and Aramis from _The Three Musketeers _(Alexander Dumas)

Westley and Inigo Montoya from _The Princess Bride _

Alejandro Murrieta and Elena de la Vega from _Zorro_

Natalie Cook, Dylan Sanders and Alex Munday from _Charlie's Angels _

Cleopatra Wong from _They Call Her Cleopatra Wong _

James Bond from _James Bond_

Once more with copious reference to the play _Yesterday My Classmate Got Ea—Died. _


	31. Masquerades and Mayhem

**A&A&A Boarding School**

Authoresses' Notes: We've been receiving lots of criticism on some of our methods; so we shall address two of the most commonly brought up ones below.

1) The feminism theme: We admit to being rather feministic in our ways. It's a long story, which might have to do with some bad childhood memories, but that is irrelevant. While it is true that some of our female characters are of exceptionally strong character and deserve that unequal treatment, we will be taking note of the male characters who merit such focus as well. Like Eric said, _egalité._

2) Legolas: My, this is a huge point of dissatisfaction. Yes, at the beginning we hated Legolas very much, and we had our own reasons, one of which was spiteful malice (you hear that, Zeggy? You hear that, Mich?) Later, we forgot about him. Now, Lydia is beginning to spot recent potential for development in his character, and Rukuelle is going along with it for the moment, so we will see. We're not going to be mean to him anymore; it interferes with our learning process of developing into the omnipotent Voices in our literature. We still think he's a vainglorious creature and has a ego problem – but well, who hasn't?

As to the other minor points: We really try to focus on as many characters as possible, but unfortunately we haven't the experience of the people who wrote Lost. The Les Miserables we use is a fusion of musical and book canon – and unless your French is incredibly good, don't try reading the book in French before you read it in English. Alexandre Dumas once mentioned that he wanted d'Artagnan's first name to be Nathaniel, but ditched after his critic friend advised him against using it. And we don't play video games.

Also, while it is our duty to update as soon as possible and it is the right of the reader to expect frequent updates, we do have our own lives. Right now we are in the middle of some very important exams. Therefore, while we do not mind people encouraging us to update more often, we do have a problem with them coming into our personal spaces, such as Lydia's blog, and demanding to know why we haven't updated. We don't appreciate that.

Disclaimers: Songs used in here do not belong to us. _Fascination_ is by Marchetti, the Jurassic Park theme belongs to whoever made Jurassic Park, _Santa Maria del Buen Ayres_ is by the Gotan Project, _Cry Me A River _and _Moon River_ are from some jazz illuminaries, and Franz Ferdinand and the Yeah Yeah Yeahs own themselves, and _The Fallen _and _Man_, respectively. Queen is the best thing that ever happened to the music industry, so naturally we're not responsible for it.

**31. Masquerades and Mayhem**

The packed schedule of an A&A&A student was liable to cause much lamentation. The first-years had just barely emerged from auditions, when they realised they had to get ready for the masquerade ball that night. So they went, amid much complaint about CCAO and fervent bewailing the fact that the masquerade was compulsory.

A slight hiccup in administration was that Galadriel had forgotten to specify what _sort_ of masquerade it was. Some people had assumed it was the fancy dress-up sort, where you went in the most glittery costume available. Some people had assumed the only compulsory apparel for attendance was a mask. Some people, like the hobbits, had assumed it was a _literal _masquerade; thus all four of them were going as doughnuts of different flavours, and no one of the first two convictions could talk them out of it.

"I don't know how you managed to talk me into this," said Frodo, doubtfully eyeing his costume.

"It's hilarious!" exclaimed Merry, affixing a chocolate chip to Pippin's costume. "And so original. I mean, who'd have thought of doughnuts but a hobbit?"

Frodo sighed and turned to deal with the costume. Merry and Pippin had enthusiastically constructed all four doughnuts out of looped chicken wire, which was fundamentally simple to get into, but made walking hellish.

At least, reflected Frodo, his was chocolate, which wasn't so bad. Merry had wanted to be strawberry-flavoured. To Frodo's unassuming mind, walking around in a bright pink wire ring wasn't so much hilarious as downright tasteless.

He stuck a giant cutout raisin on his face, and hoped despondently that no one would recognise him.

* * *

The girls' dormitory was in an uproar. Every girl was dying either of nerves or mortification. It wasn't hard to see which category each one fell into. 

Helen was being extremely anxious about her appearance and bemoaning it to anyone in the vicinity, which was grating on the others' nerves. In their opinion, people who were naturally beautiful should stop flaunting it by wailing about some minor cosmetic flaw, and have some consideration for those who had bigger things to worry about, like lack of figures, or blackheads, or unmanageable hair.

Arwen was wisely not falling into that trap, instead quietly helping Cosette touch up on eyeliner and kindly advising Andromache on which pair of earrings to wear.

Speaking of earrings.

"These are clasps," explained Elizabeth patiently. "You clip them on your earlobes."

Holly tried one on reluctantly, and ripped it off almost immediately. "They _hurt_."

"Well, obviously they do. If you had earholes you could wear earrings, which wouldn't hurt, but you _don't_ have earholes, so you have to – "

"I'm not wearing them," said Holly resolutely, handing back the clasps.

"Oh, come on, it's only for the night! You need something to soften that crew cut…"

"I do not," said Holly flatly, "believe in pain for beauty. It's just not worth it."

Elizabeth sighed in defeat, and put the clasps away. She wriggled around on the bed to watch Anna regard herself doubtfully in the full-length mirror on the closet door. "I don't think red is really my colour," she said, fingering the Moroccan-red skirt. "But apart from that, it's really not that bad."

Elizabeth beamed up at her. "You know what? You're actually a closet clotheshorse."

"I hate the sleeves," said Anna automatically.

As Elizabeth clicked her tongue and bounced up excitedly to tackle Anna's hair, Arwen made a passing compliment to Éowyn as the latter adjusted Eponine's sash. "You look wonderful," said the elf-maiden, and then, teasingly: "For anyone special?"

Éowyn was taken aback by the comment, so much so that she nearly snapped back at Arwen. "No! Definitely not."

Arwen smiled a smile that made Éowyn want to hit her, and turned away. Éowyn fixed her eyes on the back of Eponine's neck and told herself that it was true, all too true.

* * *

Galadriel, elated at having succesfully pulled off one massive organizational event earlier in the day, was being calmly excited about tackling the next one. Celeborn was beside her in the great hall. He looked morose. 

"I hope they all remember to wear something _appropriate_," said Galadriel calmly for the umpteenth time.

"Mmhmm," said Celeborn non-committably. He was perched on the edge of a trestle table and reading a particularly good novel that Elrond had lent him.

"Did you test the sound system, dear?"

"This very afternoon," murmured Celeborn. He was planning to sit around for the first fifteen minutes, and then elude his wife and hide in some alcove, reading good novels till it was all over.

He carefully screened that thought, of course; a marriage of immemorial length to the Lady Galadriel had made him very aware of her telepathic abilities. However, Galadriel was already thinking along those lines in the first place.

"You must dance with Evelyn. The poor dear never has anyone to dance with."

Celeborn was startled out of his reverie. "What? But how _does_ anyone dance with her? She's…transparent!"

"Just pretend, dear," said Galadriel, sighing elaborately. "I do hope Firenze comes for once. He always misses the orientation ball."

"I suppose he can't be bothered to climb down all those steps," said Celeborn's mouth, while his brain flicked frantically through the lines in search of where he had stopped.

Galadriel leaned over and tapped the spine of the book. Celeborn looked up. A battle of wills commenced.

Eventually Celeborn, with the air of one allowing a child's whim in lieu of her immaturity, got up, shut the book, self-consciously adjusted his robes and frowned upon the world in general.

Galadriel smiled sweetly at him, and drifted off to check the lights.

When she wasn't looking, Celeborn stole a profiterole from the table, ate it swiftly, and then went off in search of somewhere to stow the book for easy retrieval later that evening.

* * *

At half-past-seven, the front hall was filling with students clad in masquerade finery. It was easy to differentiate between levels. The first-years, clustered at one end of the halls, looked largely terrified at the ordeal before them. The second-years viewed it with the uneasy sentiment of a revision test. The third-years looked more or less apathetic. The fourth-years, who had been through three of these affairs before, were completely at their ease, regarding the hysterics of the first-years with seniorly contempt. 

The doors of the Dining Hall were pushed open, and Celeborn stuck his head out. "Second to fourth-years, enter."

The aforementioned levels gathered respectively and entered in their varying states of aplomb. This left the first-years alone in the front hall, and if anything, increased their discomfort.

Celeborn gave them an almost kindly look, and told them to get ready for their entrance, girls one line, boys another.

The double doors shut again.

The first-years assembled in the formation they had been directed to take. The girls, who were clad in gowns of quite a fine standard, were trying to hide their anxiety behind glittering masks and faux giggles. The boys were a motley lot; this was due to their different interpretations of the theme. The ones with lack of imagination or willing effort were dressed in tuxedos. Some of the more fashion-oriented were wearing costumes to rival their female counterparts in ornament The hobbits stuck out like, well, chocolate chips on an icing surface.

"Everyone's wearing a mask," whispered Sam. "I feel queer, done up like this."

"Aha," said Frodo dully. He had snipped two holes in the raisin cutout, so he could see where he was going. "Fortunately, _I_ at least have a mask."

The double doors opened again, with more formal deliberation this time. Through them one could see the Dining Hall, decorated with more ornamental lighting than should be considered natural. There were the teachers at the end of it, and the seniors elegantly lining the dreadfully empty space cleared in the middle, which could only be assumed to be the dance floor. That was probably the most terrifying part of the whole set-up.

"The first-years," said Galadriel, and smiled.

A grand music burst from the sound system as the first-years entered nervously in their two rows. Some of them observed uneasily that it was the Jurassic Park theme song; this didn't seem, to their minds, to have very good repercussions on themselves.

They came to a halt in the middle of the gleaming floor.

Galadriel had briefed them on this part. First-years traditionally opened the ball by taking the first dance. Unfortunately, she hadn't briefed them enough. Subject matter not covered would include _who_ exactly would be dancing.

There was a long, uncomfortable pause.

Then Aragorn and Arwen, ever the couple with initiative, stepped forward. Aragorn bowed; Arwen, who was being dazzling in a shimmering cythère-cream gown that only she could have carried off, performed a complex obeisance that produced intakes of admiring breaths among the watchers.

Galadriel lavished a smile upon her favourite pair, and turned an expectant eye to the rest of them.

For a moment, the tensions running between both sides hovered too strongly. Then, after Aragorn's example, Faramir stepped forward and bowed to Éowyn.

The Company of Heroines, Boromir, Éomer, and other stakeholders, held their breaths. Éowyn, if she was having an internal struggle, showed no sign of it. After what seemed to Faramir like an interminable pause, she did a stiff bob. A dozen people released their breaths with a sigh.

After that, it was smoother. The established couples convened: Hector to Andromache, Achilles to Briseis. Will approached Elizabeth, who accepted with a pretty curtsey to rival Arwen's; after a frantic discussion with Harry, Ron hastily accosted Hermione, who if anything looked relieved.

Tensions rose again when both Legolas and Paris stepped up to Helen simultaneously. The looks between the two could have gutted half a fish-shop. Helen stood torn between the attentions of both, conflict spreading over her lovely face.

Suddenly, Legolas seemed to form a decision. His expression hardened; tossing his head, he stalked off abruptly.

Helen turned towards his retreating figure, a cry on her lips; but Paris, taking her arm almost possessively, drew her attention back to himself. He too seemed puzzled at Legolas's sudden desertion, but was all too willing to make the best out of it.

Eponine found herself wondering if it was too much for a girl to approach a boy. She was seriously considering that option, when Marius suddenly made his move.

She stifled a gasp as he came in her direction, and then, as he switched course abruptly and came to stand before Cosette, her heart suddenly took a plunge for the darker depths.

The world began to blur. Eponine forced it back; she would not cry. There were so many times in her life that she had made herself not cry; why not now?

Through her steadily smudging vision, she realised dimly that a figure stood before her. This so surprised her that she was able to blink the tears back with long practice, and focus on him.

Her shock was substantial when she realised it was Legolas.

Eponine stared, and said under her breath, "_What the hell_?"

Legolas rolled his eyes, quite spoiling the visionary appeal of his appearance. "Right," he said, equally quietly, "if you're not going to appreciate this, then I'll just – "

Eponine recovered herself. "No, no, I'm sorry. Really. I'm just...quite shocked. Sorry."

Legolas muttered something to himself, but stayed. Eponine went on staring at him, perplexed.

Beside her, Anna watched narrowly as the opposing side cast nervous glances at her. Of course, she would never admit to _hoping_ for someone to pick her up; when her reputation was taken into consideration, that would be highly unlikely in any case. But nevertheless, it would be terrible if she was the only girl left standing. It'd be just …… disgraceful.

The boys opposite her fidgeted. Several of them glanced at Van Helsing, as if to say, _She's supposed to be _your_ problem, deal with her_.

He could also feel some mental pressure at the back of his mind. He glanced up at the front podium. Galadriel was staring straight at him, commandingly.

Van Helsing sighed. Grudgingly he stepped forward. "This is only for appearances," he said under his breath.

"I am aware of that," said Anna haughtily. She curtseyed.

"You are aware I am doing you a favour?" went on Van Helsing dryly.

"Believe me," rejoined Anna sarcastically, "I am gratified beyond reason."

Galadriel checked the pairings. Trouble had taken Holly; excellent. Chix, who had managed to decently dress for once, was with Lili Frond, who was a stunner to the third mental column in excessive pink. The other boys, quite relieved to be let off this round, backed into the ring of spectators. Satisfied, Galadriel turned on the music.

_Fascination_ hummed through the hall.

The seniors watched, somewhat critically, as their juniors began the opening dance. It was a patchy spectacle. Some of it was quite wonderful to look at; no doubt the Screen Couple of the Century were the highlight of it all. Elizabeth was also an fine dancer, and Will a good complement; Legolas was by genetic default graceful, which meant that Eponine's inaccurate footwork was sufficiently covered up. One just had to avoid looking in the direction of, say, Anna and Van Helsing, who still danced as if they were trying to akkeido-flip each other.

_Fascination_ was a piece of music that went on beyond five minutes. This felt extraordinarily long for some of the first-years, who tried to cover it up with conversation.

Eponine felt that there was a lot about Legolas that merited inquiry, but at the moment he was looking very forbidding as they circled the floor. She'd have to talk, though, because the sight of Marius spinning Cosette not too far off was driving her to distraction.

"Thank you," she said.

Her voice jerked Legolas of whatever higher reverie he had been engaged in. "What?"

Eponine decided it wasn't worth repeating. "Why'd you just – leave Helen? You were all over her the whole of this week."

"Yes," said Legolas shortly. "I was."

They performed an underarm turn in silence. Eponine felt like it was time to prod him again. "So? What happened just now?"

"I was enlightened," said Legolas, and paused. Eponine waited.

Eventually he did continue. "It struck me," began he, "that my fascination with Helen was not one of passion, but of materialism. I was merely in love with her, because to be so was to compete with Paris. She was no more than an object to me. And then I realised how pointless the whole affair was. Such childish competition was beneath a dignified individual such as myself. So Paris may have Helen; I care not."

Eponine absorbed this profound philosophy in silence. "So, why me, then?"

Legolas appeared to mull this over for some time. "I don't know," he concluded. "Perhaps it was because someone had just walked away from you?"

The music ended. The dancers stepped away from each other, bowing and curtseying respectively. Eponine stifled a sniff.

"You could be quite nice, actually," she told him, "if you weren't such a jerk sometimes."

Legolas stared at her impassively.

"Anyway," went on Eponine, decisively, "I think I'll sit the next one out, if that's okay with you."

"Yes," said Legolas shortly. He was secretly glad, because he had decided that dancing with sad people was bad for his nerves.

The second dance saw the introduction of the seniors onto the floor, replacing some of the less terpsichorally-inclined first-years. Faramir followed Éowyn into the spectating crowd.

"I'm not dancing," said Éowyn, irritably.

"Yes, I can see that," said Faramir evenly. "Neither am I."

They came to a stop beside the canape table. Faramir picked up something involving olives and feta-cheese on a toothpick and offered it to Éowyn. Éowyn ignored this, leaned over him and picked up another one similar to it. Faramir shrugged, and ate the one he was holding.

"You're still mad over the business in the sewer, aren't you?" he began in a deceptively conversational tone.

"Of course," replied Éowyn frostily. "You shot me."

"Well," said Faramir reasonably, "I'm sorry. But look at it this way: if it had been your team's flag instead of mine, would _you_ have shot _me_?"

"Yes," said Éowyn absent-mindedly, and then suddenly realised what she had just said. "I mean, no! Yes! Well……maybe."

Faramir made a gesture with his toothpick that indicated he had proved his point and had nothing left to say. They stood in front of the canapes in a frigid silence. Behind them, two doughnuts methodically ate their way through the mushroom puffs, occasionally pausing to squabble over a particularly large morsel.

"So," commenced Faramir again, breaking the ice of silence with the pickaxe of conversation, "would you like to dance?"

"No," said Éowyn flatly. "I really meant it when I said I didn't want to."

Faramir gave her an unhappy look. Éowyn relented.

"But if you don't mind, you could pass me one of those shrimp pastry things."

* * *

The ball was well underway. The students danced beneath Galadriel's careful scrutiny and soundtrack management. The teachers danced too. Butler was dancing with Professor McGonagall, and Celeborn, looking put-upon, was pretending to waltz Evelyn and trying not to draw any attention to the fact that his hand was going through her shoulder. 

Up at the soundbox podium Galadriel had used up her Tchaikovsky, her Southern waltzes, her Elvish harp dances, and any other random classicals that had been lying around – and at any rate, people were getting bored of them. While _Moon River_ played, she sifted through her CD collection and finally came up with something – challenging.

As the dancers finished _Moon River_ and came slowly to a halt – it had been a very, very slow dance – the silence of the break between songs was split by a sudden strident chord.

Celeborn looked up in dismay. "Please don't tell me that's _Santa Maria_."

_Santa Maria, Del Buen Ayre_ resounded through the dance hall. Several of the students, especially those who had lasted through Galadriel's dance classes for four years, could identify it by name, but no one was in any doubt that it was a tango.

The floor cleared miraculously. Slow waltzes were all very well, but not just anyone was going to take on a tango piece and risk embarrassing themselves.

Galadriel watched the space keenly. Then there was a burst of cheering as Alejandro and Elena from the fourth year stepped out, the latter looking even more magnificent than usual in a heavily-ornamented ball gown of black and blood orange. The applause rose when Christian and Satine moved forward, both a vision of Parisian decadence. Satine spun on her heel to take Christian's hand, making her trailing train of French rose plumes flare out behind her, and cast a coy look past her rose filigree mask in Elena's direction; the latter returned it with a knowing smile. Several of their batchmates were whooping and catcalling; clearly the reputation of these two couples had preceded them onto the dance floor.

There was muttering among the ranks of the other years; this wasn't the fourth-years' ball. Then the first-years cheered as their representatives, Aragorn and Arwen, emerged and took up their positions.

"Come on," hissed Elizabeth suddenly, tugging at Will's hand.

"What?" exclaimed Will, caught off guard.

"Don't you want to try?"

"Do you know how to dance the tango?" demanded Will.

"Probably," shrugged Elizabeth, and pulled Will out of the crowd. In the meantime, another couple that Will couldn't recognize had joined the daring ones in the middle of the hall. The boy wore a mirrored mask that covered nearly his whole face, and a trihorn hat fairly dripping with feathers, while his partner was clad in a sequinned black dress riding up to her thighs, that was even now causing some sensation among the evening-garbed spectators, and a glittery feathered mask-and-headdress ensemble.

When one cuts out the long costume descriptions, this entire process took a mere few seconds, and the six couples were already assembled when the tango came into its second bar. Will followed the examples of the others and dropped Elizabeth into an alarmingly fast series of one-armed dips.

While of course, he would never have considered Elizabeth to be anything below a good dancer, he was quite astonished to find out that she was an exceptional dancer. She spun and curved as if she had been learning the tango from young, and not simply improvising.

Unable to keep up with the creative flow, he contented himself by being a very good picture frame.

The whole dance was over faster than he had expected, for which he was secretly relieved. He looked around surreptitiously as the spectators applauded; Satine was involved in some complicated-looking acrobatic pose, and of the mysterious couple, the girl had lowered herself into a perfect split. Will wondered how on earth she did it in such a short skirt.

He led Elizabeth off the dance floor, and suggested that they should take a break. When they reached the biscuit table, their fellow masked dancers were already there. The girl was eating a strawberry verona in an almost predatory way. Her partner looked up as Will and Elizabeth approached, and greeted them in an unbelievably familiar voice.

"How's it going, mate?"

"Jack?" said Will incredulously, trying to see behind the mirrored mask.

Jack took off the mask, so that he could grin at Will and eat a double chocolate milano at the same time. He crunched it, and went on, "Say, you mean you didn't recognise me?"

"It must be the mask," agreed Will.

Jack waved it. "Thought I should do some gettin' into character for tomorrow, see. You met my date yet? This is Velma, mates. Velma, this here is Will. And this is Elizabeth."

"We've met," said Elizabeth. Now that she knew, she could identify the sleek black bob, and the supercilious quirk of the full lips. Velma acknowledged this with a sultry smile.

"I see you finally managed to steal someone's girlfriend," observed Will disparagingly.

"Watch it, kid," replied Velma. "I was no one's chick. I'm not one for commitment."

Will was about to say, "Jolly good, neither's Jack!" but he stopped himself in time.

"Well," said Jack, finishing the squid, "we'll be off, aye? Music's starting up, and we can't miss the tide."

And he was off. Velma blew Will a kiss past Elizabeth's outraged nose and swanned after.

"I didn't know he liked older women," remarked Will, in a daze.

"Well, she obviously likes younger men," snapped Elizabeth, snatching a mint Brussels off a plate. "It's so her type."

* * *

Aragorn and Arwen, quite understandably exhausted, took a break from the dancing for some time. Mingling with the spectators, they were critically inspecting the drinks section when they encountered two familiar figures inhabiting the shadows behind the yoghurt table. 

"Well," said the marquis de Carabas pleasantly, "if it isn't the alluring little Arwen. And the boyfriend too, I note. What a pity he's not a scriptwriter; it rather spoils the criteria – but we can't all be over-achievers, can we?"

Aragorn stared at him; people not tuned to the marquis's aloof style of discourse tended to be bewildered by the mordacious undertones.

"He's an ODACian," remarked Hunter shortly, from where she was reclining against the wall next to the marquis.

"I see," said the marquis. "Which grants him more heroic potential than Jack Driscoll, and therefore makes him marginally more useful. On a whole, darling, you've done quite well for yourself," he concluded, patting Arwen benevolently on the head.

Unlike the others, Hunter and the marquis did not look much different in this ball setting than they did normally. Neither was wearing a mask. The only changes the marquis had made were switching his usual coat for a higher-collared one with a greater abundance of lace at the cuffs, and polishing his boots somewhat. Hunter was not complying with the dress code at all; she was still wearing her leather outfit, and the only modification to her appearance was her long hair, which had been carelessly twisted up into a distant cousin of the chignon. It was quite surprising that Galadriel wasn't on to the two of them yet.

"Have you danced yet?" inquired Arwen, ever social.

Hunter gave a short laugh. The marquis shook his head. "Of course not. We never dance, Hunter and I. Firstly, we'd constitute a danger to others on the dance floor; secondly, she's a head taller than me, and that would look ridiculous; thirdly, we're not actually a couple. We're just covering up for each other."

"How so?" asked Arwen, slightly perplexed.

The marquis sighed theatrically. "The problem with balls is that they're _such_ conventional dos. To explicate, they only allow boy-girl couples, and we, alas, do not swing that way."

It took them both some time. Aragorn got it a second before Arwen did. "Oh," he said.

"Oh," said Arwen. "Oh. That's why Jack Driscoll's never very concerned about you letting Ann sit on your sofa, isn't it?"

"Very astute, our Arwen," commented the marquis in an aside to Hunter, who raised an eyebrow. "Not like that Roxie. About as sharp as a butterknife, poor girl. Two years in the club and she's the only one who hasn't caught on yet. Even Ann realised it before she did – I was truly quite surprised, considering how innocent she looks."

"I'm sure Driscoll told her," said Hunter dryly.

The marquis leaned over as Foaly passed by and nicked a carrot from the bowl the centaur was carrying. He broke it in half and offered one half to Hunter, who declined wordlessly. The marquis shrugged, and bit into it. "Well, I shan't keep you from your ball," he continued through a mouthful of carrot. "Run along, children."

After Aragorn and Arwen had left, still bemused, the odd couple wandered through the shadows behind the refreshment tables, until they unexpectedly encountered two doughnuts, who were trying to consume the cherry gelato.

The marquis de Carabas was not often taken aback by surprise, but this time he was. He mastered his expression quickly, of course, and exclaimed, "What the _hell_ are you?"

"Doughnuts," said Pippin reproachfully, as if this should be obvious. Which it was, except people tended to need to confirm what they were seeing.

"_Why_," asked the marquis de Carabas, voice dripping with mordant inquiry, "are you _doughnuts_?"

"Because it's a masquerade ball," answered Merry.

Hunter rolled her eyes. "And these," she remarked acerbically, "are your juniors?"

"Comic relief," muttered the marquis. Recovering himself, he applied a grin to the beaming hobbits. "Are you bored?"

"No," said Merry around a mouthful of gelato. Pippin nudged him and whispered something. "Yes, actually," rectified Merry. "No one wants to dance with doughnuts."

"I don't blame them," agreed Hunter.

"Really now," said the marquis, looking pleased. "I have a task for you then, my confectionery comrades." He fished in his extensive pocket collection and dredged up a bunch of CDs that looked a little too thick to be hiding in pockets. "The current range of classical music irks me. Go change it."

"What's in it for us?" demanded Merry, pragmatically.

The marquis shrugged. "The fun, I guess. Of course, if you don't feel like it……"

The hobbits made a lunge for the CDs. "We'll do it," sang Pippin, as they danced off in the direction of the vacated soundbox.

"You're very into this junior-corruption thing, aren't you?" said Hunter, as they watch the hobbits circle the podium and plan an attack strategem.

The marquis spread his hands in a gesture of self-vindication. "What is life, but a series of uninspired follies?" he quoted. "The trouble is to find them to do."

Hunter stared at him.

"Pygmalion," explained the marquis, feeling miscontrued. "George Bernard Shaw."

"I hate your literature moods."

The hobbits twain were clutching their CD stash, and trying to figure out how to operate the sound system without anyone noticing, when they were surprised by the other two doughnuts.

"What are you doing?" enquired Frodo, who always found it good to be on the suspicious side with his cousins.

"Changing the soundtrack," said Merry, inspecting the wiring.

"Oho," began Sam self-righteously, "if the Lady catches you, you're – "

"What," said an all-too-benevolent voice behind the four of them, "do we have here?"

Merry and Pippin spun around guiltily. Frodo and Sam tried to look like innocent bystanders who had been in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Gandalf the Grey stared down at them, bushy eyebrows flaring. Technically he was Gandalf the White tonight, because he wore white on special functions, such as this occasion. This made him no less darkly terrifying.

"Why," said Gandalf, still sounding benevolent, "it's a stack of CDs! Tired of the current soundtrack, are we?" He took the CD stack from Pippin's unresisting hands and began to flip through the albums. "Franz Ferdinand? The Yeah Yeah Yeahs? What sort of a name is that? Nirvana? What _do_ you young people listen to nowadays?" He finally stopped, and pulled out one album. "Queen? Ah, _that's_ more like it." He dumped the other CDs back into Pippin's arms, removed the disc and pressed a few buttons on the dashboard panel. "This, you fool of a Took, is how you change a soundtrack."

The previous music, which had been _Cry Me A River_, stopped. As heads looked up, mystified, all over the hall, it was replaced by a rousing chorus of Queen.

_Oh, won't you take me home tonight?_

_Oh, down beside that red firelight?_

_Oh, you got to let it all hang out_

_Fat-bottomed girls, you make the rocking world go round._

Gandalf strode off, looking pleased and nodding to himself.

The four hobbits looked at each other in consternation. "Right," said Merry quickly, "if anybody asks, we saw Professor Gandalf do it. Okay? Let's bolt."

They dropped the CDs and ran for it.

* * *

Anna and Holly, famously dance-floor spinsters, had wound themselves back onto it, out of curiosity to the new sound. 

_There are many ways you can hurt a man _

_And bring him to the ground_

_You can beat him, you can cheat him, you can treat him bad_

_And leave him when he's down_

"I wonder who changed the music," said Anna out loud.

Holly made a gesture of not-being-able-to-hear. Anna repeated her question over the noise created by Freddie Mercury and a hall-ful of gyrating students.

"I have no id – " began Holly, but was interrupted by someone on her eye-level. "It was Professor Gandalf," said Merry.

"Yes it was," supplemented Pippin. "It was him, not us. Not us in the least."

The latter statement earned him a smack about the head from his older cousin.

"Wonderful of you," said Anna. "I hate slow music."

Merry and Pippin beamed at her. Sam looked wary. Frodo tried to fade into the crowd – not an easy task to do, if you're a doughnut with a raisin for a face.

When the hobbits had wandered off, Holly said: "I think I need a drink. I'm going to get one. You coming?"

"No," answered Anna thoughtfully. "I'm going to check out the soundtrack. They might have something even louder."

She made her way through the energetic crowd to the soundbox. A stack of CDs lay scattered before it. She bent down and picked one up.

"The Yeah Yeah Yeahs?" she read aloud.

She straightened, and encountered a horribly familiar sight. "What the hell are you doing here?" she exclaimed.

"I wanted to look at the soundbox," said Van Helsing truculently.

"Funny how I was thinking the same thing, isn't it?" Anna snapped back.

"Yes," rejoined Van Helsing, "funny how you're always thinking how I think."

"Are you – " began Anna hotly, but froze on the expression on Van Helsing's face. She turned around slowly.

The Lady Galadriel fixed her with an inquiring expression.

"Professor Gandalf did it!" said Anna's mouth on autopilot.

"Did what, pray?" asked Galadriel gently.

"Er…changed the CDs," said Anna, feeling slightly derailed.

"So I see," said Galadriel. She extracted the Yeah Yeah Yeahs from within Anna's yielding hand. "How wonderful. I was just running out of CDs. Will you do me a favour, dear ones?"

"What?" said Van Helsing, who was perturbed by the implications of 'dear ones'.

"Seeing as you two are, oh, not too fond of dancing, while I have been yearning to dance all evening – would you mind the soundtrack together? You may pick songs."

Anna stared. There was something wrong with this, but Galadriel's smile was dazzling her ability to spot the flaw.

"Sure," she said. "Of course."

"Lovely, darlings," said Galadriel graciously, and swept off. Anna and Van Helsing, still standing in shock, watched her bend down at the side of the teacher's table. "Would you do me the favour of a dance, Inspector Javert? You have not danced the whole evening……"

"Right," said Van Helsing, as _Another One Bites the Dust_ drew to a close, "who's going to pick the next one?"

Anna's eyes narrowed. "Is that a challenge?"

Van Helsing rolled his eyes heavenwards. "Woman, you always assume that every statement I make is a challenge. I see no reason why we cannot settle this in a civilized manner."

"Like what?"

Van Helsing considered this. "How about…rock-paper-scissors?"

Anna nearly choked from the hilarity. "Are you _kidding_?" she scoffed.

Van Helsing frowned at her. "No."

Anna scrutinised him. He looked, for all the world, perfectly serious. This was incredibly odd. Anna was so intrigued she decided to go along with it to see where it was all leading.

"All right."

Ten seconds later, she was exclaiming "Yes!" as her rock killed Van Helsing's scissors.

Van Helsing scowled at her, but went off to sit at the side of the podium. Another odd thing, thought Anna. Why is he letting me have my way today?

Perhaps he couldn't be bothered. And Anna found that she, too, would not have bothered to start a fight tonight, had the occasion presented itself. It must be the masquerade mood.

She randomly picked a song off the back of the Yeah Yeah Yeahs album. It was called _Man_, which was the most uniquely short song title she had ever seen in her life.

She inserted the CD, moved it to the right track, and sat down on the podium a metre away from Van Helsing. "So," she began cautiously, "about the – "

Violent sound blasted from the speakers.

_I got a man who makes me wanna kill_

_I got a man who makes me wanna kill_

_I got a man who makes me wanna kill, and_

_THERE HE IS! THERE HE IS! THERE HE IS! THERE HE IS!_

Anna winced from the volume. Across the hall, people clutched their ears and shuddered.

"For God's sake, turn it down!" yelled Van Helsing, pulling his hat down over his ears.

Anna stumbled over to the volume control and lowered the volume, much to everyone's relief.

"I like loud music," said Van Helsing reproachfully when she returned, "but even I have my limits."

"It's not so bad," retorted Anna defiantly. "It's really quite…catchy…if you listen to it long enough…"

_We're all gonna burn in hell_, sang Karen O, _I said we're all gonna burn in hell……_

"Why, I'm sure it is," said Van Helsing sarcastically.

Anna found she could not summon up the will to hit him for that sarcastic comment. She simply leaned back into the podium and closed her eyes. She was suddenly very tired. This whole first week had been _exhausting_.

She let herself drift with the music; although with art punk rock, such a movement would probably be less of a drift and more of choppy whitewater-rafting. It really was good rock, she decided after some time, and put it under Songs to Listen to When Angry.

"It's a good song to listen to when you're angry," remarked Van Helsing from the other end of the podium.

Anna's eyes flew open. "How did you know what I was thinking?"

"What you were what?" said Van Helsing, confused.

Anna gave him the narrowed glare she reserved for Lady Galadriel, when the latter was in a psychic mood. "_That_," she said coldly, "was what I was thinking."

"Well, pardon me if I happened to be thinking the same thing," retorted Van Helsing sardonically. "I am _so_ dreadfully sorry if my mind thinks common thoughts, oh yes I am."

Anna rolled her eyes.

"But really," went on Van Helsing in a more normal tone, "why do we keep thinking the same things? Do you remember the first day of school?"

"Yeah," said Anna. "I met you at the coffee machine. And the fruit juice machine. And I said – "

" – that I was stalking you," supplied Van Helsing. "I honestly wasn't. I suddenly decided I didn't want coffee, that was all."

There was a long and uncomfortable silence, which was also in part reflective.

"That's how this whole thing started, isn't it?" realised Anna, with growing dread. "Because we think alike. We started a feud because we think alike. That is…so…"

"Stupid?" suggested Van Helsing deprecatingly "Inane? Imbecilic?"

"Something like that," agreed Anna. She ran her fingers through her hair distractedly. "Oh, damn. I just _wasted_ a whole week hating you."

"Glad you realised," remarked Van Helsing dryly.

This conversation of revelation was disrupted by the violent conclusion of _Man_. "Your turn to pick," Anna told him, almost glad of the interruption. The whole thing was getting uncomfortably edifying.

Van Helsing sifted through the CD selection and picked at random the Franz Ferdinand album. Anna shut her eyes again as he changed the tracks. _The Fallen_ began to play.

_Some say you're trouble, boy_

_Just because you like to destroy_

_All the things that bring the idiots joy_

_Well, what's wrong with a little destruction?_

"I'm beginning to like the range of song selection," mused Anna. She said it aloud.

"Just what I was thinking," said Van Helsing wearily. "Sometimes you disturb me."

* * *

The masquerade ball ended at midnight. Slowly but surely, Galadriel urged all her students, whether exhausted, tipsy or simply on a high, to go to bed. The hobbits, doughnut suits looking slightly crushed, stumbled upstairs on extended stomachs. Anna and Éowyn found each other in a state of profound cognitation; if only they had asked, they would have realised how similar their subjects of thought were. Jack and Velma had mysteriously got drunk, despite Galadriel ensuring that nothing on the dessert counter included liquor, and were showing it in a way that made Will cringe. 

Somehow or other, though, they all made it back to bed. The glittering finery was laid aside, and they shed the masquerade for their usual nightclothes. Next morning, they would all wake up and pack away the gowns, the hats, the masks, and go about their Sunday.

Now, though, they were all too exhausted to do much but fall asleep the moment they stepped into the dorm.

They all fell asleep more or less instantly, and woke up very late the next morning.

**End of Chapter**

_Next chapter coming…_**Congregation and Consternation**


	32. Congregation and Consternation

**A&A&A Boarding School**

Authoresses' Note: This is the pre-Phantom chapter. We know you've all been waiting for the next chapter – so this chapter is all about waiting. Fitting, non?

We're glad you understand about Legolas (shut _up_, Zeggy) There was someone who asked the age question again; the answer's somewhere in the first few chapter callouts, but to summarise the characters are mostly of schoolgoing age, say twelve to twenty, or the corresponding ages for the elves and the fairies.

If anyone was wondering where Artemis was last chapter, EvilExpressions was correct. He was wallflowering. He tends to do that in ensemble scenes.

The sisters wave to Garnetian Dragon, the reincarnated. We did miss you.

Evidently the doughnuts were majorly popular.

We hope you noticed how we're resolving the various conflicts that have been appearing throughout this story, and that you understand what this means. Well, it couldn't go on forever. It was fun while it lasted.

**32. Congregation and Consternation**

At eight o'clock, the school bell rang insistently.

"Oh, please," groaned Sam, tearing the sheets away from him with wobbly arms, "it's Sunday, don't we get to sleep in or something?"

"There's rehearsal," said Frodo.

"There's what?"

"Rehearsal," repeated Frodo patiently. "For Phantom. It's tonight, remember?"

Sam fought with his pillow. It kept, for no special reason, trying to magnetize him to the bed. "When?"

"Eight thirty," said Frodo helpfully. "We have half an hour for wash-up and breakfast."

"Eight _thirty_?" exclaimed Merry, hopping past on one foot as he tried to wrestle his sock on. "Is she _nuts_?"

"Don't say that about the Lady Galadriel," muttered Sam. His hand reached out automatically for the toothbrush, while his feet pushed themselves into slippers and shuffled out of the dorm. Frodo scooped up his clothes and followed.

The bathroom was bedlam. While the boys didn't spend as much time washing up as the girls did (although this was a reference to the majority. Nobody ever asked Jack what he was doing with the eyeliner, and they were still at a loss to explain Legolas) but they nevertheless had to go through the motions of getting ready for the day.

"Damn!" exclaimed Aragorn. "I left my razor in the dorm."

"Take mine?" offered Van Helsing, who had just finished shaving. Aragorn extended a hand. Van Helsing, who was at the other end of the room, simply raised the razor over his shoulder and let fly. The razor executed a parabola and buried itself in the potted plant beside the mirror.

"Please," said Carl in a small voice from near the bathroom tiles, "would you _please_ stop throwing the razor around?"

Aragorn pulled the razor from the potted plant and began to fastidiously wash fake soil off the blade.

Mulch hammered on the cubicle door. "Who's in there?"

"Me," said the unmistakeable tones of Artemis.

"What the hell are you doing in there? You're taking a millenium!"

"Changing," said Artemis, without altering the composure of his tone.

"_Changing_? Why can't you change out here like the rest of us?"

"Forgive me if I require my privacy," replied Artemis mercilessly.

"Damn it, Fowl, I have constipation!"

The last statement caused sudden consternation among those standing near Mulch. "Artemis, _please_ let him in!" yelled Éomer in something close to panic.

"Or we'll all die in here," added Harry, who then had a brainwave. "If you don't come out – Merry and Pippin will sing you Chinese opera!"

"We don't know how to sing Chinese opera," whispered Merry.

"Oh, we could sing that funny Romanian song!" suggested Pippin, delighted with the idea. The ones who had heard that song before gasped in horror and leapt forward to stop him, but Pippin was already careening off on a styrofoam-scratching key. "_Mai-ya-HEEE! Mai-ya-HUUU!_ _Mai-ya-HUUU! Mai-ya-HAA-HAA!_"

"All right, I'm out, I'm out!" shouted Artemis, rushing out with his towel clasped over his ears. Mulch dashed past him and shut the door, accompanied by relieved sighs from the bystanders. Pippin, who seemed to be enjoying himself altogether too much, was grabbed around the mouth by Merry and towed off.

* * *

At half past eight, rehearsal began.

Galadriel inspected her troops, who were lined up before the apron of the auditorium stage. She valiantly overlooked the fact that they were yawning.

She dangled a pocketwatch in front of them. "This," she said pleasantly, "is a timer. I shall be timing your progress. The first thing I will be timing is how long you take to reach the stage of ready-set-play. Ready? Starting from – now."

With the flick of her wrist, the cast and crew leapt into action, scuttling backstage. There was much crashing as props were wheeled onstage and people shoved into position, while overhead the lights flickered on and off. Finally, in three minutes and thirteen seconds time, Hermione the overall stage manager stuck her head out from behind the curtain and gave Galadriel the thumbs-up.

"Excellent, dears," said Galadriel appraisingly. "Now, we'll run once, break for lunch, run again, and then get ready for the final performance. Now, curtain up in three – two – one."

The curtain went up. The lights went on. The overture started.

Galadriel watched it with major satisfaction, and then released her class for lunch break. So that they didn't have to leave the stage, she had made them packed lunches, which they descended upon with voracious delight.

"Don't get any crumbs backstage," murmured Galadriel, and drifted upstairs to check the lighting.

The first-years sat on the apron and ate their sandwiches, occasionally negotiating with each other for extra pickles. The stagehands had located an antique records-book backstage, and now they were leafing through it.

"Look," said Joly excitedly, "it's got every other play staged in this auditorium before documented in here!"

The plays were mostly previous Orientation Night performances by the first-years of bygone days, or Drama Club productions. "Here's the programme for last year's batch," exclaimed Hermione. "They did 'An Inspector Calls'."

"Fascinating," said Artemis dryly, from where he was trying to manhandle his sandwich without actually touching it with his fingers.

"What's that?" asked Ron, haplessly.

"J. B. Priestley," said Hermione loftily, "I don't suppose _you'd_ have heard of it. I wish we'd done 'An Inspector Calls' instead, it's so much more respected as a literary work."

"Says the girl who's never heard of Gaston Leroux," pointed out Artemis snidely.

Hermione glared at him, and retreated into the backstage with her lunch.

"_Play was adapted by Jack Driscoll_," read Elizabeth off the credits. "I knew it. Let's look for Ann, she'll be here if he wrote it – yes, she played Sheila Birling. And – Westley played Gerald Croft?"

"That's Sheila's boyfriend?" said Jack. "This is funny."

"Here's a bunch of Drama Club plays," observed Boromir, leafing further back. "_After Chemistry – Sing to the Dustbunnies – Alice Thinks Harder – _here, there's one called _Yesterday My Classmate Got Eaten_."

They stared for a while at the production photos of _Yesterday My Classmate Got Eaten_.

"My," commented Aragorn after some time, "that's gay."

"That's _very_ gay," agreed Achilles.

"This is _too_ funny," supplemented Jack, and fell over laughing hysterically until Will and Aragorn stuffed a carrotstick down his throat.

They went on reading until Gimli dropped a dill pickle on the credits page of some batch play from seven years ago, and Arwen made them put it away before they destroyed any more historical artifacts.

At half past one, Galadriel returned, and the students made ready for their second run.

The last run before an actual performance is often heartstopping, almost as if it is the real performance itself. The stagehands are skittish. The cast is flushed, and a tad too quick with their lines. The director is paranoid, and wants to scream with every little mistake that is made, if it is but the tiniest flaw, ie. _Aragorn didn't put his hands in his pockets like I told him to! That chandelier came down two beats too early! Why isn't Jack smiling when he sings?_

At the end of it all, the cast and crew congregated on the stage, apprehensive. Galadriel took a deep breath, rose and swept up to them. She cleared her throat and waited for them to arrange themselves around the apron.

"As you realise, this is my last briefing before you play," she said.

Her audience nodded, dismay on their faces as the reality of the fact settled in.

"There are a thousand things I could correct you about," went on the Lady, "a thousand flaws and a thousand ways you could improve, but if I did I would never finish. At any rate, it is too late. You are where you worked to be, and that should be enough."

"Now, I do not want you think about the play itself. I want you to think about what made this play. We have come a very long way, from when you did not know each other, till now, when you all can finally be considered a real class. Cast, you worked hard to memorise your lines and get the chemistry going between each other. Crew, although you will never appear, you have worked as if you would. Indeed, there have been times when all of you were beyond exasperating, but you have come beyond that. You have gone from a rabble to a play, and I am so proud of you."

"What I want you to remember tonight is this: you are not doing this for me. You are not doing this for the audience, or for the orientation, or for the sake of doing it. You are playing for each other, for the class, for all of you as a single entity; and don't make me proud. Make each other proud."

There was a long silence following her unexpected speech. And then Arwen leapt up and threw her arms around her grandmother's neck, while around them the cast and crew burst into thunderous applause. "Three cheers, and three cheers, and three cheers for the Lady Galadriel!" somebody was shouting, and the class responded with: "Hip hip hurray! Hip hip hurray! _Hip hip hurray!_"

Galadriel kissed Arwen and actually laughed at the sight of her cheering class. "You silly dears," she said, lightly. "All right, you get a break till half past five, by which you must all be back here so you can get your make-up on, and get into character. Is that understood? Well then, run along."

The class 'ran along', to fill water bottles or get more snacks to fortify them through the lengthy production, some humming snatches of what they were due to sing. Galadriel ascended the steps of the auditorium, till she was standing next to Celeborn, who had just emerged from the audio box.

"Oh, dear," she said quietly, "it always is so sweet. I could cry."

"Don't," said Celeborn, alarmed.

Galadriel sighed. "The darlings. I love them so much."

* * *

At half past five, the class reconvened upon the boards of the stage. They gathered around Galadriel, who was briskly directing them to their respective dressing rooms. "Find your costumes. Get changed. Wait there till I come by – those who know how, start applying make-up first. Off you go."

They scattered, boys to the boys' dressing room and girls to the girls'. Arwen brought out the stack of Hannibal costumes, which no one had ever liked because of their especially stringy nature, and the girls commenced the struggle of getting into them. This was made difficult by the fact that there were no actual cubicles to change inside, and the girls desiring extra privacy (the majority of them) had to use the oddest spaces, like the broom cupboard, which wasn't even two feet wide, and only two metres tall after all the shelves had been removed.

Currently, Anna was in the broom cupboard, Hermione in the second closet and Holly in the mysterious small space beneath the make-up drawers. The girls waiting in line were seated about the room, twiddling with the various tassels that made up their costumes, when the door opened and Draco Malfoy walked in matter-of-factly.

The girls nearest the door leapt from their chairs with outraged gasps. Elizabeth glanced up in horror and shrieked, "_Boy in the room! Don't come out!_"

"Do you _realise_," Éowyn was saying frostily as she towered over Malfoy, "that you can't just _walk_ into a _girls'_ changing room without _knocking_? What if we hadn't been decent?"

Malfoy peered around her. "I don't see anyone – not decent."

"They're all in the cupboards, you idiot," snapped Eponine.

This point was emphasised by several muffled thumps against the broom cupboard door, accompanied by much hissed profanity.

Malfoy raised an eyebrow. "How do they all fit?"

"That is beside the point," declared Arwen, unfolding herself and bearing down on Malfoy with such imposing magnificence that he involuntarily backed up against the door. "What do you want?"

"Galadriel wants main cast in the dressing room next to the stage exit as soon as possible," muttered Malfoy sullenly.

"We'll be right along," said Arwen sternly. "And the next boy who comes through that door without knocking will be nailed to it by his earlobe. You can tell them that."

Eponine opened the door and poked Malfoy through it, slamming it on him with some viciousness.

The girls maintained their expressions of severity for a few more seconds, and then they dissolved into manic laughter.

"Did you see his face!" giggled Elizabeth. "Especially when you started poking him. Oh, glorious."

Hermione crawled out of the closet in costume. "If he comes back," she said, somewhat wistfully, "can I be the one who does the nailing?"

"All right," said Arwen, collecting herself and raising her voice, "main cast, you heard the message. Elizabeth, Andromache, Briseis, come on."

They headed down to the dressing room in question. The boys were already in it. Jack, skilfully touched-up, had been ordered to stand in the corner far away from the make-up boxes.

Galadriel seized on Elizabeth, and began to do her eyeshadow. Arwen, dutiful granddaughter, picked up the blush and summoned Pippin over. Pippin, glad to be near anyone with a brush who wasn't Jack, scuttled over obediently.

* * *

At six, the boys sent another representative to the girls' dressing room. This time, they sent Frodo, who nobody would have the heart to nail to a door and who was better liked amidst that particular circle. The purpose of the message was to plead for help with make-up. The girls found it amusing, but they acceded, partly because it must have taken a lot for the boys to voluntarily plead such a favour.

The girls with cosmetic ability, after ensuring the presentability of their own friends, took the make-up boxes and went over. Those without cosmetic ability stayed behind at first, but later got bored by themselves and followed.

Even now, the tension was running high. To allay this, someone had devised Truth or Truth – dares might ruin the make-up – and they were spinning an empty hairspray bottle. The rules were becoming quite repressive; there are only so many embarrassing questions that one can ask.

"So," said Grantaire, "who in this room would you shoot, shag, or marry?"

"This is pointless," retorted Artemis. "This is the seventh time that question has been asked, and out of those seven times no one has given a straight answer. I do not intend to be the first, thank you very much."

"Give it up, Artemis is asexual," called Holly from where she was seated atop a table, watching Eponine choose Gavroche's foundation. "Couldn't we dare him?"

"Too risky," said Hector. "Just ask him another question. A more straightforward one."

"Do you have a crush on Jean Grey?" inquired Ron.

"No," said Artemis impassively. "Our relationship is entirely senior-junior, with a side of mentor thrown in, perhaps. Wholly platonic."

"Then why do you keep talking to her?"

"That's one too many questions," answered Artemis. He leaned over and gave the bottle a prod with his toe. It spun lethargically, and they spent some minutes trying to decide who exactly it was pointing at.

"Anna!" exclaimed Grantaire. "Anna, who in this room would you shoot, shag or marry?"

"No, Grantaire, not again," muttered Enjolras behind him.

Anna stared at him for a long time. Finally she said, "Can I shoot all three?"

* * *

At half past six, the main cast, lacking the benefit of inane truth games, were 'getting into character'. Currently they were achieving this by asking each other questions.

"Madame Giry," Aragorn was saying, "what would you like most in the world?"

Andromache considered this. Some of the others had been trick questions.

"I want Meg to be Empress of France."

"Very good," said Arwen approvingly. "Managers, what do you hate?"

"Letters," said Pippin.

"Ghosts," supplemented Merry.

"Falling scenery."

"Empty matinées."

"Divas."

"Chandeliers."

"Rhyming meter."

"Do you hate _everything_?" asked Elizabeth.

"Why not?" shrugged Merry. "They're all out to get us."

Arwen graciously changed the topic. "Phantom, tell us something about Raoul."

Jack had to think about this. "The Vicomte is a fop, has bad taste in capes, and can't fence. And he don't deserve Christine," he added, dutiful to canon.

"Doesn't, not don't," corrected Arwen absent-mindedly. "Carlotta, what would you say to Christine if you got the chance to speak to her face-to-face?"

Elizabeth didn't even have to think. "You're an upstart of an ingenue who seduced your way into my role – which you're not doing justice to, by the way – and I can't see why the Vicomte even likes you, because you sing like a chicken, you're skinnier than Madame Giry's cane, and you're flatter than an airport runway!"

There was a pause. Then Arwen said, in a somewhat strangled voice, "Well. Thank you."

"Don't let her get to you, love," Jack told her soothingly. "She's lying, savvy? For one, you're not flatter than an airport runway. Matter o' fact, you're not flat at all. Oh darn, that sounds wrong…"

"You stop there, Sparrow," said Aragorn warningly. "You stop right there."

"I think we're pretty much in character now," decided Arwen. "Is this the part where we start meditating?"

* * *

At seven, the audience began arriving.

The curtain was down by now, but in the tradition of pre-preformance nerves, the cast and crew were taking turns peering through the slits to see who was filling up the seats.

Holly, eye pressed to the edge of the curtain, was giving a hushed commentary. "Commander Root's just arrived – he looks bored, not a surprise – and a bunch of…second-years, I think…behind him. There's Gandalf. And McGonagall. I think every teacher is here."

"Firenze isn't," pointed out Éowyn.

"Who expects him to be? Look, the prefects get their own row. I can see Jean Grey."

"Look," said Haldir to Legolas, "it's your father!"

Legolas blanched. "What's he doing here? I didn't even mention the play. I'm not even in the cast!"

"I suppose Adar told him," mused Arwen. "Elizabeth, there are our seniors."

Elizabeth found a slit and peered through it. "Christian, Satine, _and _the marquis. Oh god, the pressure!"

"Is that Velma in the sixth row?" Arwen wondered aloud. "Because she's making out with the d'Artagnan fellow from Fencing. Oh, we'd better not tell Jack."

"I actually don't think it'll affect him very much," said Elizabeth heartlessly.

"Rusty's eating a taco," moaned Pippin. "I want a taco."

"We just had dinner," Elizabeth told him sternly.

"It was sandwiches! I want a taco. Two, maybe."

"Eat lightly before performances," muttered Arwen absent-mindedly, and wandered away.

When they got tired of watching new arrivals, they retired to the dressing rooms again. The cast was silent. The strain of the upcoming performance was very telling. Briseis kept muttering her lines fretfully under her breath, over and over again. Jack was flipping his hat, until it flew out of range and caught on the edge of a mirror, causing Andromache to snap at him; even she looked shocked at the vehemence in her own voice. Even the hobbits were quiet.

"The play will begin in ten minutes," they heard Galadriel's voice echo in the auditorium outside, amidst the buzz of the audience.

Arwen got up. "Let's pray," she said.

Her fellow cast members stared at her in confusion. "Pray what?" said Jack, nonplussed.

Arwen shrugged. "Just pray. Come on, stand in a circle and hold hands."

The cast was still puzzled, but obeyed.

Arwen began. "Dear Valar."

"Dear Apollo," added Briseis.

"Dear God," finished Elizabeth. Arwen took up the thread again.

"Please let this performance go well. Please bless it. Please bless me, that I may not drop the harmony, and that I may hit all the notes in my aria."

"Please let me come onstage on the right cue," continued Aragorn.

"Please help me to remember all my lines," pleaded Briseis.

"Please don't let me swear," said Andromache fervently.

The prayers went round the circle, as each actor prayed for something that, whether trivial or not, became hallowed in the energy of prayer emanating from all of them. The prayers went round, finishing at Jack.

"Dear God," said Jack with all sincerity, "sometimes I don't believe in you, sometimes I forget, but to be honest, I seriously need you now. Maybe I'm no good son of yours, but some of these people here do believe in you, so if not for my sake, then for theirs, bless this play and its actors and its crew, because this play is powered by class spirit, and I swear myself to it, so help me God."

"And I," said Arwen.

"And I," echoed the others.

Then finally, finally they released each others' hands, and opened their eyes.

"Don't cry, Briseis," said Andromache, trying to be stern but merely achieving tearful. "You'll smudge the eyeliner."

"I feel sad," sniffed Briseis. "This is so sad."

"No, it's not, love," Jack told her encouragingly. "The first scene's a comic one, savvy? C'mon, mates, group hug."

They did so, and then accomplished several individual ones.

"The play will begin in two minutes," came Galadriel's voice.

"Right," said Aragorn, "let's do this. I think there's a relevant phrase with 'rock' in it somewhere, but never mind."

They left the dressing room. The crew was waiting for them. There were many whispered words of good luck, handshakes, hugs – and then they were taking their positions on the stage.

"The play will begin in thirty seconds," said the voice – this time a different voice, Celeborn's. Galadriel had arrived backstage; she was standing in the wings. She was smiling, the most beautiful smile they had ever yet seen upon her face.

"The play will begin now," said the voice. "Please turn off all mobile handphones and beeping devices. We hope you enjoy tonight's performance. And now, the first-year batch of A&A&A Boarding School presents...The Phantom of the Opera."

The applause started up.

The lights came on.

And the curtain went up.

**End of Chapter**

_Next chapter coming…_**The Phantom of the Opera**


	33. The Phantom of the Opera

**A&A&A Boarding School**

Authoresses' Note: We will say nought. We know you have waited long. Well, so have we.

**33. The Phantom of the Opera**

The Phantom of the Opera is a tale that has been told many times. Half the literate world knows its story. But it is very rarely that a tale is told from the point of view of the people behind it, from the angle of the backstage.

The backstage we speak of was currently in absolute pitch darkness. No one moved. Everyone was frozen in one spot: seated on chairs, perched on tables, curled up on the floor. Not a word was said to mar the lines being delivered onstage. The golden rule of stagehanding: at all times, _shut up_.

Hermione, appointed stage manager, was standing in the wings, one hand raised. She was waiting for the cue to signify the scene change.

Courfeyrac, who was playing the auctionneer for the prologue scene, said it. "Let us frighten away the ghost of so many years ago – with a little illumination."

"Right," mouthed Hermione, "here it comes……"

Courfeyrac's hand moved on the fake switch.

In the AV booth, Celeborn flicked the real one. The stage was plunged into darkness, as the chandelier simultaneously lit up with a staggering brilliance.

"Crank!" hissed Hermione.

Van Helsing, whose responsibility was the chandelier, seized the handle of the flywheel and cranked furiously. The flywheel, which had been painstakingly oiled by Galadriel several times the day before, moved without a single squeak. The chandelier lifted off the ground and drifted above the heads of the audience, who looked suitably awed.

In the meantime, the scene change was taking place with all the secrecy of a guerilla operation. In a stagehand's daydream, he is invisible, or at least unseen by the audience. The heaviest of props can be lifted like a feather, and however hard it is flung down it makes no sound. The stagehand sees perfectly in the dark, and potential stumbling blocks move out of the way as he runs across the stage. And everything lasts five seconds.

In the real world of the practical theatre, there was a lot less perfection and a lot more effort required. The scene change, a deeply complicated one, went off without major incident (not counting the minor one when Frodo smashed a table into Gimli's midriff, causing the latter to emit a muffled groan and fellow stagehands to wince) Hermione checked that the props were at their markers and the actors in position.

"Set!" she hissed into her walkie-talkie.

"Set!" hissed Van Helsing, referring to the chandelier.

"Good," said Galadriel, picked up her own walkie-talkie and hissed, "Set! Set! Set!" into it.

Celeborn got the message, and the lights came up.

The scene bore Galadriel's directorial mark of being artistically messy. Elizabeth was leading the dancing girls in their stringy costumes in a rousing chorus of "Hannibal comes!" In the background, Gavroche juggled three papier-mache heads, pitched them all into the palm trees and executed a bow, even though no one had actually seen him; he had been blocked by the fake elephant upon which Piangi was riding.

The remaining stagehands (not many, because several were onstage playing stagehands of the Opera Populaire) settled down on the newly vacated chairs and spaces and watched the scene with relish.

Merry and Pippin, dolled up in the best of waistcoats and extravagant moustaches, watched along with the audience as the dancing girls skipped across the stage. Holly hoped that they were looking at Arwen and Briseis and not at her.

"If you please, monsieur," Andromache was saying – she looked particularly forbidding as her cane struck the stage boards in an ominous rhythm – "we take particular pride in the excellence of our ballets."

"I see why," agreed Pippin, knowledgeably. "Especially that little dark-haired angel – "

"Meg Giry, my daughter," murmured Andromache as Briseis danced a pretty step in the centre of the stage, before retiring to make way for Arwen.

"And that exceptional beauty," added Pippin. "No relation, I trust."

"Christine Daae. Promising talent, M. Firmin, very promising."

Arwen spun, her skirts flaring. From what the stagehands in the wings could see of the audience's faces, they looked quite impressed. Even from the distance of a back row seat, Arwen's beauty was astounding.

Galadriel smiled to herself, and remembered to gesture at Legolas and Chix, who were waiting for her cue. The two leapt up soundlessly and ran for the ladder which led to the flies. Legolas climbed it; Chix flew beside him. On the top, Legolas stood up, balancing with elvish ease, and began to walk the thin metal bars that made up the flies. He took up position at one post, where the stage scenery was suspended from; Chix flew silently to the other.

Down below, they could glimpse Elizabeth's golden head as she sang her horrifically cabaret and over-accented rendition of "Think of Me".

"_When you fiiiiiiind that once agaaaaain you loooooong to taaake yoooouuuur heaaaaart back and be –_ "

Chix looked at Legolas, who nodded. Then they both simultaneously sliced at the bindings which held up the scenery. The scenery did as the curtain had done on Wednesday, and collapsed.

Elizabeth's scream nearly knocked Legolas out of the flies; as it was, he got back to the ladder without further incident and shimmied down it easily and gladly. Chix stayed a little longer to drop an envelope on Andromache's head. Mme. Giry picked up the envelope, and began to read the Phantom's note.

The stagehands were on edge again; another scene change was coming up, and this time an even more complicated one.

"_When you find_," sang Arwen as Christine, "_that once again you long to take your heart back and be free – if you ever find a moment, spare a thought for me_."

And the orchestra burst into full harmony. The stagehands leapt up as the lights dimmed, and began to drag the elephant out. Andromache and Briseis were helping to fix Arwen's dress. Andromache did a final tugging check to make sure that the tiara was firmly affixed to Arwen's hair, and then escaped.

The lights came on upon a scene which seemed to have seamlessly transited from the previous one. Galadriel exhaled in relief.

If the audience had been impressed by Arwen's dancing, they must have been blown away by her singing. Arwen was in top form tonight. She was the blushing Christine down to every last detail; her tiara sparkled, her smile gleamed, and her voice soared and hit the arching ceilings of the auditorium.

"_Flowers fade, the fruits of summer fade, they have their seasons; so do we_," sang she. Hermione began to get the others up and ready for the next scene change. Despite the popular belief that stagehands stone backstage during a scene, in truth a good stagehand is always on edge. Hermione went to check the furniture for Christine's dressing room.

It was in the left wing, third curtain row. Jack was sitting on the dresser, awaiting his scene.

Hermione frowned down at him. "Unnecessary items should not be left on necessary props."

"You break my heart, love," Jack told her with a saucy grin. Hermione glared at him further, and he slid off with a sigh and headed behind the mirror.

Christine's dressing-room was set up, and the scene commenced. It was after the dancing girls and Mme. Giry had retired, and Christine and Raoul were alone in the dressing room, when the first calamity of the night occurred.

Cosette was crossing between the wings, behind the cyclorama; she was carrying an open tin of dressing pins which Andromache had directed her to bring back to Galadriel. Eponine was walking behind her. Normally all that would have passed between them would have been a couple of hard glares on Eponine's part and aversion on Cosette's. But this time, Cosette saw something else first.

A rat chose this moment to make its appearance backstage. It was a truly large rat, a species of freak rodent, as long as her forearm – tail-length not included. Its little red eyes gleamed in the darkness lit only by what light filtered through the cyclorama. It stopped right in front of Cosette, sniffed the air, and looked around at her.

Cosette opened her mouth to scream.

Eponine registered all of this in a matter of seconds, and made the further realisation that if Cosette screamed in the middle of a scene, and the audience heard – then it would be all over.

Eponine had a very straightforward method of problem-solving. If there was a problem, then the ideal solution would be to physically remove it at once. She leapt upon Cosette from behind, clapping her hand upon the girl's mouth, and tackled her to the ground, muffling whatever sound might have emerged from that orifice. The dressing pins went flying; there was a sound like a thousand raindrops as each one hit the floor. Eponine could feel one of them digging into her elbow; it had cut a small gash. She wished Cosette would stop struggling.

The two of them had rolled into the cyclorama, which had begun to ripple at the slightest touch. The light twisted and rolled as it hit the undulating surface. Eponine shut her eyes and hoped that the audience would be too occupied with Angel of Music to notice a rippling cyclorama.

She opened her eyes. The Lady Galadriel was looking down at her.

"What happened here?" she mouthed.

Eponine sat up, wincing as a dozen dressing pins dug into her hips and legs. Tentatively she retracted her hand from Cosette's mouth. Cosette was trembling like an aspen in an avalanche. She was sucking in her breath in violent gasps, and her eyes were dilated.

"Cosette," whispered Galadriel commandingly, "_calm down_."

Eponine watched as Cosette's terror immediately settled into an expression of calm. "Rat," she said, her voice empty. "Very large rat. Here, backstage……"

Galadriel looked around. The rat had wisely chosen to evacuate the premises.

"There is no rat backstage," she said.

Eponine opened her mouth to gainsay her, to protest that yes, there had been a rat, she had seen it too – but then she looked into Galadriel's eyes and realised what her teacher was doing. "There is no rat backstage," declared Galadriel again.

Cosette nodded. "Yes. There is no rat backstage."

"You had a collision with Eponine. It is very dark behind the cyclorama."

"Yes. Very dark."

"Excellent. Now, pick up those pins." Galadriel rose, leaning as she did so over to Eponine. "No one will hear of this." Then she was gone, a ghost in the dark.

Eponine looked at Cosette. The girl was obediently bending down to feel for pins in the darkness of the floor. Eponine sighed and followed suit.

It was impossible to find the pins. Like Galadriel had said, it is very dark behind a cyclorama. The pins seemed to have been swallowed up by the floor, until one of them suddenly pricked Eponine on her groping palm.

There had been no footsteps behind them, and so they nearly screamed again when Haldir's voice said in the darkness, irritably: "What are you two doing here? The Phantom of the Opera scene change is due in a minute!"

"We dropped some dressing pins," Eponine tried to explain. "We've got to pick them up, or people will start stepping on them and screaming. Have you got a light?"

Haldir left without a word and returned with an object held in his palm. He flipped it open, and a square of blue light glowed in the darkness. It was Lili Frond's handphone.

"Thanks," said Eponine gratefully, sweeping the ground with the luminous blue beam and gathering up the pins illuminated in its wake. "Get someone else to carry my prop, will you? I have to get this done."

Haldir left them. "Eponine's busy," he told Hermione in left wing. "She needs someone to carry her prop."

"I'll do it," decided Hermione, not asking for an explanation. The scene change was too close for comfort.

The audience had just finished being impressed with Jack's appearance from behind a seemingly opaque mirror. The stagehands took the opportunity to sweep the dressing room (and Aragorn in it) offstage. Van Helsing was working the cranks; the gangways lowered themselves into place. It was pretty expensive machinery, for a school production, but Galadriel never spared any expense when it came to her students.

"Second station," said Hermione briskly, as Jack and Arwen hurried past her to the ladder, which they began to climb; Jack first, then Arwen, clutching the skirts of her costume in one hand. "Are the others in position?" she barked into the walkie-talkie, and listened to the crackle of answering static. "Right. Go, go, go!"

There were two pairs of Phantoms and Christines altogether; to give the impression that the pair was popping up everywhere, they would be running across the stage in different directions, in an attempt to bewilder the audience.

The other pair was Anna and Enjolras – Anna had been chosen because she was dark-haired, like Arwen, and around the same build. As Jack and Arwen went on singing in the wings, their voices echoing across the stage, Enjolras led Anna down the gangway. They disappeared into the wings below, as the authentic pair emerged from the second gangway high above the stage, and rushed down it to the right wing.

The boat was waiting for them. Jack had nicked it for them from the Sailing Club's shed, and it had been sufficiently draped in gauze and spangled taffeta that any members of the Sailing Club in the audience would have to be extremely paranoid to recognize it as one of their own. Jack leapt into it, Arwen clambering across the side and sitting down behind him, as he seized the pole Hector held out to him, and the boat was pushed out onstage.

The boat was now supposed to travel across the stage. This was to be engineered solely by Hermione, who was the only student of magic advanced enough to move a whole boat with two people in it across such a long distance. Now Hermione pointed her wand at the boat, which began to weave sinuously across the stage. Beads of sweat were standing out on her head.

"Levitation," hissed Harry. Every other student of magic who had been able to master levitation had been assigned a specific candelabra. Now each candelabra rose into the air, different ones at different speeds, as whispers of "_Wingardium leviosa_" sounded across the backstage, mingled with the prayers of Briseis and Carl and various grunts of effort from those with other types of magic.

From the audience's point of view, it was a truly marvellous spectacle. Hermione could hear them gasping in wonder as the set seemed to move around the Phantom and Christine by itself, but dared not let relief intrude into her concentration.

"_Sing_," cried Jack, who as the Phantom firmly believed that all this wonderful movement was his doing, "_sing, my angel of music_!"

The remaining crew backstage held their breaths. This was the pinnacle of the spectacle.

"_He's there, the Phantom of the Opera_," sang Arwen in a low voice, and then she hit the high notes.

Her voice rose in an incredible crescendo, soaring above the imaginary water, above the gangways, above the sky of the stage and into the flies, higher and higher but still true to the note. The candelabras swooped around her, and Jack forgot to pole in wonder, and as the song reached its most staggering height, Arwen screamed.

The lights went out.

The audience applauded wildly. Hermione, nearly crying with relief and exhaustion, directed the stagehands to facilitate the scene change for the Phantom's lair.

After the Phantom of the Opera, Music of the Night was a walkover. The stagehands relaxed upon their perches and watched Jack pretend to play the organ and sing. Jack had always enjoyed pretending to play the organ; he always took it on more amazing arpeggios and scales than Artemis, who was doing the real playing in the orchestra pit, could have managed.

"_Close your eyes, start a journey through a strange new world, leave all thoughts of the world you knew before!_ _Close your eyes and let music set you – _"

"Come on," muttered Aragorn, "you can hit it." The rest of the cast stared at him in amazement.

"_Free_!" sang Jack, perfectly on key.

Aragorn made a small and understated gesture of triumph.

"_Only then can you belong to me_……"

The stagehands were secretly glad when Music of the Night ended, because despite Jack's improved singing the audience was beginning to look faintly bored. The madness and confusion of the next scene was certain to wake them up.

They made the scene change for the managers' office. Merry and Pippin wandered onstage, reading their notes this time – real notes, written in Arwen's best cursive.

"_Who would have the gall to send this? Someone with a puerile brain! These are both signed O.G. – who the hell is he? Opera Ghost! It's nothing short of shocking – he's mocking our position; in addition he wants money – what a funny aberration to expect a large retainer – "_

Aragorn burst onstage. "_Where is she_?"

It was shaping up to be a highly confusing scene indeed.

Backstage, Andromache fussed over Elizabeth's bright pink hat, and stepped back as the prima donna rushed out. "_Where is he_? _Your precious patron…_"

Andromache settled back to wait for her own cue, but froze.

The rat had made a reappearance. It was creeping along the edge of a stage block, to where Mulch had left an open ham sandwich lying on a props table.

Andromache was not as given to screaming as Cosette was, but when she ran onstage it was clear that she had a strong reason for running as she did, that was not an overwhelming desire to deliver the managers a note.

The stagehands turned as one, and beheld the rat.

Lili Frond opened her mouth to scream. Holly tackled her as Eponine had done Cosette, and they flipped over onto a couch, struggling. Arwen flattened herself against the wall. Frodo, who had been sitting on a cushion directly under the ham sandwich, leapt up with a muffled oath and edged away.

The rat turned to stare at them, whiskers riffling. There was only one thing to be done. Hermione whipped out her wand and approached it nervously.

The rat stared at her transfixed, and then abandoned the sandwich and scuttled for cover, followed by a bolt of light and Hermione's hissed "_Immobilius!_" The spell just missed its quivering tail, and it plowed through a group of seated stagehands, who jumped out of the way. Hermione marched after it with her wand raised, like the Statue of Liberty come alive and vengeful.

Jack came round the corner. "What the – " he began, and then saw the rat. To Hermione's horror, he understood instantly and whipped out his own wand.

"No!" she began, but Jack pointed his wand at the rat and opened his mouth.

Hermione considered immobilizing him as well; he was definitely a larger target. But there was something intrinsically wrong with immobilizing the Phantom on performance night, so she simply elbowed him aside and went after her prey.

Onstage, Merry and Pippin were serenading their Carlotta. "_Prima donna, the world is at your feet! A nation waits, and how it hates to be cheated!_"

Hermione pelted after the rat, Jack on her heels.

"_Light up the stage with that age-old rapport!_"

The rat took the path behind the cyclorama. Hermione and Jack leapfrogged Eponine and Cosette, who were still gathering pins, and turned into the right wing.

"_Sing, prima donna…_"

A poorly-aimed spell froze a nest of ants in the wall.

"_…once…_"

Hermione shot another spell, but the rat evaded it. It turned tail and ran towards the light, emerging onstage just as the cast was pausing for a hasty deep breath.

"…_more!_"

Hermione stopped just in time, teetering at the edge of the wings. Jack shot past her.

The audience turned to stare at him.

"Aha," said Jack to himself. And then, to the audience, "_So it is to be war between us! If these demands are not met, a disaster beyond your imagination will occur!_"

And he offhandedly pointed his wand at the rat, which had climbed onto Firmin's chair, and let fly the spell.

The chair burst into a fiery conflagration. The rat was immediately razed, along with the upholstery.

"_Once more!"_ sang the cast with aplomb, as if the managers' office was not burning down behind them.

Then they got off the stage as fast as possible.

* * *

The first act was over. Aragorn and Arwen had sung the house down with All I Ask Of You, the chandelier had crashed, and now it was intermission.

While the audience lolled in their seats, the first-years went backstage and stressed.

"I forgot a line!" screamed Elizabeth.

"I couldn't tell," admitted Will. "Where?"

"Prima Donna. It was an Italian one."

Will groaned. "Nobody's going to notice, Elizabeth!"

But the whole cast was in a state of mind where they simply had to blame something. Some people were blaming the rat, but the majority of the blame was self-targeted.

"I didn't move the block to the correct position! It was a foot off!"

"I sang off-key during Hannibal – did you notice? Did you notice?"

"I stepped on my own foot during Il Muto! How stupid is that?"

"All right, that's enough," said Galadriel, imperiously reassuring. "It's all over now; you must devote your energies to Act Two. Girls, get ready for Masquerade. Come, Jack, I have to put your face on."

With the memories of yesterday's masquerade still fresh in their minds, the students, dancers especially, were not looking forward to this next number. However, they went back to their dressing rooms mutely and got ready. At least most of the gowns were decent, unlike the stringy costumes.

Wordlessly, the dancers sat down in the wings which they were due to enter from. As if in silent agreement, they were all sitting with their respective partners.

"You know something?" said Anna, kicking her (too-high) heels on a stage block.

"What?" muttered Van Helsing, who was hiding his face under a hat in the hope that no one in the audience would recognise it.

"I'm nervous."

"You think I'm not?"

Anna shrugged. "It's just – solo dance? I hate doing solos on something I'm not good at."

"You'll be fine," said Van Helsing.

And this was so uncharacteristic of him that Anna couldn't think of anything to say.

Éowyn was pacing the wings. It was making Faramir edgy, but he didn't dare tell her to stop. Éowyn had a way of snapping that was enough to take the heart out of any person.

"I hate this part," said Hermione testily.

"So do I," agreed Malfoy.

They looked at each other through the masks, and then away.

"Even if we _are_ agreeing for once, it's not working," sighed Hermione.

Twenty minutes was over too soon. Once more the curtain rose; once more the audience applauded. The stage had been gifted with a new staircase, which had been draped in curtain material to disguise the fact that it was hollow.

"_Dear André, what a splendid party_," chirped Pippin. "_A prelude to a bright new year_. _Quite a night, I'm impressed…"_

"_Well, one does one's best_," said Merry, none too modestly.

"_Here's to us,_" they sang together, "_the toast of the city – what a pity that the Phantom can't be here!_"

A trilling parade note sounded. ("Damn," said Éowyn, "it's us.")

The managers were abruptly joined by a marching crowd costumed in glitter, pouring upon them from both wings. Almost everyone had been made to come out to form the crowd, and the stage was quite packed.

"_Masquerade! Paper faces on parade! Masquerade – hide your face, so the world will never find you_!"

The couples stepped out, joined hands and began to dance a stately waltz to the beat. The chorus sang on, quite relieved they were singing and not dancing.

It was the second spectacle of the night. Glitter was everywhere, true to the song; currently it was pouring from the flies by the bucketful. The girls kept thinking, with faint annoyance, that it would take ages to get it out of their hair.

Arwen pulled Aragorn out of the crowd. She was even more stunning than usual; she was dressed as an angel, and the wire halo did not make her look cheap, it made her look heavenly. She was laughing. "Think of it – a secret engagement. Look, your future bride!" She waved a ring on a chain that had been borrowed off Frodo (no one had asked him what he was doing with a ring) "Just think of it!"

"But why is it secret?" demanded Aragorn. "What have we to hide?"

As they argued, the dancers whirled (in varying standards of gracefully) in the background.

The argument was resolved, and the song ran full tilt into the dance sequence.

The solos were to be opened by Cosette and Enjolras – Galadriel felt that their dancing was better than most, and thus they were a safe choice. They were followed by Carl and Helen – Helen carried herself elegantly, Carl did not – and then Eponine and Grantaire. Eponine danced like something was on her mind. Whether it was unfinished pin business or something else, no one could tell.

Holly and Sam were up next. Holly's dancing had actually improved tremendously since her first erroneous pirouettes, though she would die before she admitted it. And then Lili and Grub – altogether not too successful, but Galadriel had fortuitously timed their solo time to be shorter than the rest, so the audience did not suffer much.

Hermione and Malfoy still danced like they were armless with prosthetics. Somehow Anna and Van Helsing seemed to have improved; while their technique was still rocky, they seemed to have gained some sense of rhythm and also response. The real improvement was with Éowyn and Faramir. The others were surprised to note that Éowyn was actually a good dancer when under pressure, as she was now – and she seemed to be trusting Faramir's judgment instead of trying to lead. All in all, it made for excellent viewing.

The highlight of the solos was the Screen Couple themselves. They were truly beautiful together, Arwen and Aragorn; they had a chemistry in movement that the others could only hint at. Elizabeth half expected Galadriel to burst into tears from ecstasy.

Even after Masquerade was over, the image of the dancing was still vivid in the minds of the watchers. The energy carried on to the graveyard scene, after which it simply got spooky.

Jack was showing a previously unseen proclivity for being still. He was so still throughout the whole of Wishing You Were Somehow Here Again that when he suddenly turned around, cloak flaring out, someone in the back row spilled a drink from shock.

Unfortunately, his proclivity for setting things on fire was by far the most prominent among his predilections, and when it came to the part where the Phantom shot fireballs from his skull-headed staff at Raoul, Aragorn had to do some unchoreographed somersaulting to dodge the fireballs Jack was gleefully hurling at him. He did succeed in setting a couple of cellophane vines on fire. The stagehands dragged them in before it spread.

"We," Aragorn told Merry and Pippin in the next scene, "have all been blind. And yet the answer is staring us in the face. This could be the chance to ensnare our clever friend." He sounded as if he was looking forward to it even more than his own birthday.

The audience watched the meandering plot, and brightened when another song beckoned. This time it was The Point of No Return. Arwen had her most brilliant gown yet; it was a vision in flaming ruby chiffon, and had rather daring sleeves.

Currently Don Juan and his servant were having a bout of confusion about their respective identities.

"_Here's my hat, my cloak, my sword,_" Will told Paris, who was being his double Passarino, handing him said effects. "_Conquest is assured – if I do not forget myself and laugh!_"

He laughed. Will was very unconvincing when it came to diabolic laughter.

He ducked behind a curtain prior to Arwen's entrance. Jack was standing there, dangling a Punjab lasso nonchalantly in one hand.

"This is the part where you kill me, isn't it?" said Will in a resigned tone.

"Aye," grinned Jack, and dropped the noose over Will's head.

After some time, Will said, "This is _not_ the way you punjab someone. Look, you pull _this_ cord, not _this_ one. You're an absolute moron, do you know that?"

Jack yanked hard on the relevant cord and left Will gasping behind the curtain.

Arwen had just finished her pretty solo. Jack emerged behind her.

"_You have come here in pursuit of your deepest urge, in pursuit of that wish that has now been silent…silent_…"

In the backstage, Aragorn stared hard at the pitch darkness of the floor. He tended to not to want to look what was going on in this scene. Jack was slightly too enthusiastic for the amount of chemistry to be healthy.

In the auditorium, the audience watched in a tense silence as the Phantom and Christine stood alone in the centre of the stage.

"_Anywhere you go let me go too_," sang Jack. "_Christine – that's all I ask of – "_

Arwen ripped off his mask.

There were sharp intakes of breath in the audience. Galadriel was good at what she did. Even Arwen couldn't resist a convulsive shudder at being so close up with such a face.

Jack waited a few seconds for the audience to thoroughly appreciate the horror that was currently pasted on his face, and then kicked the chandelier chain. In the wings, Van Helsing released the cranks, which whirled furiously as the chandelier swung down towards the stage, meeting it with a violent crash. Jack and Arwen escaped while the chorus screamed for the sake of it, led by Elizabeth, who was towing Will's body and shrieking like a distress signal in an atomic plant.

The stagehands hurriedly dragged everything offstage, including the tablecloth, which was mysteriously on fire. Once more the gangways were lowered, with Jack dragging Arwen down them as they creaked into place.

"This is the part where I save my girlfriend," said Aragorn to no one in particular. "How I love it." He climbed the ladder and emerged at the second gangway. Andromache was waiting for him.

"Come with me, monsieur, I will take you to him. But remember, keep your hands at the level of your eyes!"

"I'll go with you!" cried Briseis enthusiastically.

"No, Meg, you stay here. Come with me, monsieur."

In the meantime, Jack rowed Arwen out on his little boat. "_Down once more to the dungeon of my black despair, down we plunge to the prison of my mind! Down once more into darkness deep as hell!"_

He was successful at hitting the note. Arwen was having trouble believing that this was only a play. Jack looked terrifying in the light, with his face like that.

"_Why, you ask, was I bound and chained in this cold and dismal place? Not for any fault of mine, but for the wickedness of my abhorrent face!_"

As their boat poled out, Aragorn appeared briefly on the gangway above them, considered his options, and then jumped. As a two-day-old ODACian he already knew how to cushion falls, but nevertheless it was painful. Wincing, he checked that nothing was broken, and then crawled out under cover of darkness.

Once more they were back in the Phantom's lair. Its owner was having a vehement conversation with the little guest. Christine was vindictively pointing out where the distortions in her host's character lay, when Aragorn arrived. Hermione had splashed a bucket of water over him, for the look of it.

"Wait! I think, my dear," said Jack with malicious delight, "we have a guest. Sir, this is an unparalleled delight. I had rather hoped that you would come – now you have truly made my night!"

"_Free her_!" sang Aragorn, "_do what you like, only free her! Have you no pity?_"

"Your lover makes a passionate plea," Jack told Arwen, who was feeling more real fear by the second.

"Please," she whispered, "Raoul, it's useless."

"_I love her_," sang Aragorn, and there could be nothing truer, "_does that mean nothing? I love her! Show some compassion._"

"The world showed no compassion to me!" hissed Jack.

"Let me see her," demanded Aragorn.

"Be my guest!" responded the Phantom, grinning skeletally. "Sir, I bid you welcome, did you think that I would harm her? Why should I make her pay for the sins which are _yours_?"

He dropped the Punjab lasso around Aragorn's neck, remembered which the right cord was, and pulled it. In the background, Arwen screamed.

"_Start a new life with me!_" sang Jack, triumphant. "_Buy his freedom with your love! Refuse me and you send your lover to his death. _This is the choice. _This is the point of no return_!"

Arwen looked up at him, looked up with her lips trembling, looked up with eyes that stunned the audience into silence.

"_What tears I might have shed for your dark fate_," she sang, voice quivering with emotion, "_grow cold and turn to tears – of hate!_"

They waited a few beats for the music to begin, and then all three began a three-part counterpoint chorus simultaneously. The audience could not make out the words, but the harmony more than made up for it.

And then suddenly it crescendoed and dropped. The auditorium was deathly silent. All eyes were fixed upon the three figures on the stage.

Arwen knew it was her line, but somehow she could not force the words out. Something was choking up her throat. Tears – real tears! – were prickling her eyes; the emotion she had garnered for the performance had been too much. She raised a hand and touched the corner of her eye, and gazed almost as if in wonder when her fingertip came away wet.

The crew in the wings was silent; whether in awe or horror, it was hard to tell. "Oh my god," gasped Elizabeth, "oh my god, she's crying."

"Come on," whispered Andromache, "come on, Arwen, _sing_! Oh gods, what can we do – "

Achilles held out a hand to silence her, and said in a low voice, "Look at the audience."

They looked.

The audience was crying too. Dozens of people were tearing and dabbing at their eyes. Several of the girls were leaning into their neighbours' shoulders. Professor McGonagall was sniffing. Foaly was crying openly into a large handkerchief.

Andromache and Elizabeth turned back when they heard a sniff behind them. Hermione was sobbing into her sleeve. Ron was patting her awkwardly on the shoulder. His nose was red.

"Oh, please, not you too," began Elizabeth, and stopped when she heard the hobbits weeping onto their stage blocks. "Oh, damn," she said, "you're making me cry too," and she ran off into the dressing room to find the tissue box.

Back onstage, Arwen had found her voice. It came out shaky at first from the tears, and then gained strength. "_Angel…of Music…you…deceived me. I gave my mind blindly."_

"You try my patience," snapped Jack. "Make your choice."

Arwen walked up to him. Her cheeks were tearstained. Beneath the stage lighting they glistened like ice.

"_Pitiful creature of darkness_," she whispered, "_what kind of life have you known? God give me courage to show you – you are not alone – _"

And then she looked up and kissed him.

Those members of the audience who had been on the verge of weeping now broke into full-blown tears. Onstage, Aragorn looked distraught. He wasn't acting.

The kiss lasted nearly a minute, for full effect. The crew was so dazed with wonderment that they nearly forgot that the next lines were theirs.

"_Track down this murderer_," rang out from the wings suddenly. "_He must be found!_"

Jack broke the kiss. He looked around, frantically. "Go now – don't let them find you!"

Christine needed no telling. She ran over and began to free Raoul from the lasso. Once she had flung the rope aside, the two of them kissed and clung desperately.

("That's not rehearsed!" exclaimed Will.)

("Who cares, it's sweet," said Elizabeth with gleeful abandon, and went on singing.)

As the lovers poled off with the boat into the darkness of the wings, Jack regarded his empty lair forlornly. "_You alone can make my song take flight_," he sang softly, and then, with full-blown grief, "_It's over now, the music of the night_!"

He sat down on what had been his throne and pulled his cloak over his head, covering him in black from head to toe.

And as the music of the night soared through the flies, Meg Giry emerged from the mob that had been climbing down the portcullis and walked over to the throne. She raised a hand tentatively, and then whipped the cloak off.

There was nothing beneath, except a faint gleam of silver.

Meg bent over and picked up the Phantom's mask, staring at it as she held it in her small hand.

And the curtain fell to wild applause.

**End of Chapter**

_Next chapter coming_…

**Epilogues and Endings**


	34. Epilogues and Endings

**A&A&A Boarding School**

**34. Epilogues and Ending**

The cast had taken their bows, their second bows, their encores, and were now standing in the house, receiving roses from weeping fans and congratulations from impressed seniors. It was hard to say which were better received.

"Arwen," said Satine with all sincerity, "you are absolutely amazing, and we are glad to have you with us."

"It's an honour," answered Arwen, curtseying prettily.

"It was a really great show," added Christian appraisingly.

"Nearly as good as a Drama Club production," supplied the marquis, which got stares from the other two. "What? It can't be _as_ good, fellows. _Nothing's_ as good as a Drama Club production."

"Well, that's the best you'll get from him," said Christian ruefully.

Behind them, Jack was being drowned in roses and telling those who wanted to know how he had done the final disappearing act enigmatically that, well, a magician never reveals the tricks of his trade. Will, who definitely wasn't getting as many roses, wanted to tell him to stop granting the female fans kisses, it really wasn't becoming, but decided not to, because Jack was clearly having the time of his life.

Arwen, bidding her seniors goodnight, turned and went to find Aragorn. He was looking for her. People had been showering him with roses too.

"Thank goodness," he said, "it's a madhouse in here. Come on, there's a post-production-party."

"Where?" asked Arwen, trying to get a grip on her bouquets.

"Boys' dorm."

"My goodness!" exclaimed Arwen. "Is that legal?"

Aragorn shrugged. "Galadriel's turning a blind eye. Anyway, your dorm isn't big enough. Come on."

They dragged Jack away from his admirers, and the three of them managed to elude more as they escaped through a side door and headed for the dormitories.

Cheering met them as they entered the party venue. The hobbits had speedily procured a vast amount of repast, which the cast and crew were generously partaking of. A number of beds had been pushed to one side to make space for a food table, acquired from somewhere. Grantaire was bartending, even though they hadn't been able to obtain any alcohol.

Elizabeth, holding a cup of grape juice in one hand, came up to Arwen. "You were wonderful," she said simply. "You were the best of us all."

Arwen laughed and hugged her, grape juice and all.

Artemis was wallflowering again. He was watching the celebrations from the sidelines when Holly and Hermione came up to him.

"Hey, Fowl," said Holly offhandedly, "great job with the orchestra."

Artemis looked down at her. "Thank you," he said formally.

"Oh, stuff it," said Hermione, "come on and join the fun."

Artemis opened his mouth to protest, but he was seized by both wrists and dragged into the crowd, where the French Revolution and Harry and Ron tried to get him drunk on Coke, and he somehow ended up reciting the periodic table backwards. If you shut your eyes and ignored the demands of dignity, it _was_ sort of fun.

Anna went over to where Van Helsing was sitting on his bed. "Well," she said, "that wasn't so bad."

"Yes, it was," disagreed Van Helsing. "I'm glad it's over."

They stared at each other for a long time. Then Van Helsing said, "You know what we need?"

"Yes," said Anna. "A radio."

Van Helsing jumped up. "You get the radio. I've Franz Ferdinand somewhere."

"No," countered Anna, "_you_ get the radio. I want Yeah Yeah Yeahs."

"Do you even have the Yeah Yeah Yeahs?"

"_Yes_, I do! Now go get it, you moron!"

Van Helsing covered his face with his hat. "Oh god, are we starting again?"

"Can't live without it, can we?" smirked Anna. "Now, are you going to get that damn radio or not?"

Éowyn was sitting cross-legged on the floor. Faramir came over and handed her a cup of fruit punch.

"Thanks," said Éowyn, and downed it. Faramir sat next to her, and they watched the post-performance festivities progress around them.

"I don't want this night to end," said Éowyn finally. "I've never felt so – together. I never thought I'd ever get used to this class, but now I think I love it. Somehow."

She looked down at her fruit punch, and then up at her classmates. "I don't want it ever to end."

"Well," said Faramir gently, "we have four years."

Éowyn looked up at him, and smiled. "Yes. We do."

Faramir put down his cup, and extended a hand. "Want to dance?"

"As a matter of fact," said she, "I do."

Éowyn laughed, and he pulled her to her feet, and they plunged again into the throng of their classmates, laughing and celebrating together as a class. It had taken a week to build a spirit that would last for four years. And perhaps even beyond that.

But at the moment, all that mattered was now. Because they were together, were a class, and that was all of it, really.

_Epilogue:_

They did stay together for four years. Some of them maintained till the end that it was the best time of their lives.

Aragorn and Arwen remained Screen Couple of the Century for those four years, and beyond. Aragorn became the premature head of ODAC in his third year, and Arwen took over the reign of Drama Club after Jack Driscoll resigned from the position. They were both prefects, and later Aragorn ascended to the exalted position of Head Prefect. No one was very surprised.

Andromache and Hector became prefects too, prompting Achilles to remark that prefects came in pairs. Achilles himself remained a classic jock for the rest of his school days, the only uncharacteristic attribute of his being his extraordinary weakness for Briseis. Like jocks do, he became captain of the school soccer team, and consistently flunked History for four years.

Anna and Van Helsing led a turbulent love-hate relationship that fluctuated so much that they could only be officially declared as going out in their fourth year. One telling fact was that Anna took to wearing a hat as well. They were both converts to the punk art rock movement, and religiously DJ-ed every class party, often arguing over choice of soundtracks and resorting to childish solutions like stone-paper-scissors.

Éowyn and Faramir became a couple to rival Aragorn and Arwen in affection, except that while the latter preferred romantic garden settings, Éowyn tended to like dragging Faramir out on long hikes or engaging him in fencing sessions. With her encouragement, Faramir decided to master in psychology, thus astounding both Boromir and his father, and making him the unofficial class counsellor – not the most pleasant duty, but someone had to do it.

When in her third year, Holly bought herself a motorbike and rode it out on weekends, when she wasn't pumping bullets in the Firearms range. Despite her height, she earned a reputation with her juniors that almost equalled that of previous luminaries like Lara Croft. She did stay out of trouble – or at least, no one ever did catch her.

Elizabeth became second-in-command after Arwen in their fourth year of Drama Club, although it was clear that she had talents in which she was second to none – for example, screaming. Everybody took it for granted that she would be with Will, which she was. Nobody asked Will what he thought about it, but he clearly wasn't complaining.

Marius and Cosette were an established couple before the term was up. This upset Eponine for the rest of the school year, and she spent it angsting about unrequited love, which she considered herself quite an expert on. She never went out with anyone else, and moped a lot. Occasionally she went out with Grantaire and got drunk, and then Gavroche had to drag her back to school.

The Company of Heroines stuck together, even though three of them had boyfriends. By the end of four years they were inseparable, and remained lifelong friends.

Suffice to say that the Short Alliance did not get any taller. Mulch went on eating and being vulgar, and Gimli went on putting up with him. Merry and Pippin stayed the class clowns. Frodo got used to people calling him cute and ruffling his hair, and occasionally tried writing short pieces of bathos which he submitted to Tribune – they got published, if only because Hermione could not gainsay him. Under the tutelage of Lady Galadriel, Sam became the most remarkable plant mage to ever emerge in any academy; however, he refused several scholarships and chose instead to go into simple gardening. No one had really expected him to choose anything else.

Harry, Ron and Hermione stayed a trio. Hermione got smarter, and bossier, especially after she became a prefect, which suited her to the bone. The competition between her and Artemis stayed tense for the whole of their school days, with Artemis taking top in all the subjects for science and Hermione in all the subjects for humanities – although neither could wrest Top of Literature/Quenya from Arwen, or Top of Chinese from Holly. They put the former down to nepotism and the latter down to unfair racial advantage, and tried not to think about it too much.

Artemis's mental powers never reached the equal of Jean Grey's or Galadriel's, but he was certainly more intelligent than either. In his third year he got bored and held several bank robberies, which were fortunately never traced back to the school. Holly never stopped teasing him, and he never stopped countering her with cool comebacks. When she bought a motorbike, he bought a car, and drove it with a false license until he was of age. Holly often contemplated blowing it up, but never got around to doing it.

Draco Malfoy got quite sick of the whole set-up after two years, and at the end of the second year, he left A&A&A for an elite boarding school in the Highlands. He wasn't missed, except perhaps by Haldir.

Legolas remained pretty much a loner, although over half of his female juniors had a crush on him. He ignored Paris and Helen, and talked less and stalked more. On occasion his classmates suspected him of writing poetry, but they could never find enough evidence to base a confrontation on.

Nothing much happened to Chix and Lili Frond. She did get twenty-three handphones confiscated over the years, but apart from that, everyone else got used to her being 'the bimbo', and even stopped rolling their eyes at her regular invocations of God.

The French Revolution soon settled down and stopped being a revolution, especially after Enjolras was elected to prefecthood and decided that maybe overthrowing the prefectorial board wasn't such a good idea after all, since he was now part of it. People stopped calling them the French Revolution, and simply termed them 'those French boys'. Once they stopped singing revolutionary songs, their dorm-mates condescended to say that they actually sounded quite nice. They still met for weekends to discuss politics over coffee (or in Grantaire's case, spirits) Sometimes Eponine joined them; it was nice to have a girl's point-of-view, said Enjolras. Several times one of them would try to ask her out, but they were consistently rebuffed. They held a hate-hate relationship with Javert for all eternity, especially since after what Enjolras did, nobody took CLE seriously again.

And Jack – Jack remained Jack. He took part in no theatrical productions after the Phantom of the Opera, although his classmates often begged him to. Instead he became Head of the Sailing Club. Oddly enough, in his four years of transgression, he was never ever given detention. He flew in and out of relationships that never lasted longer than a week (the shortest being two hours) but nevertheless, everyone loved him.

And after four years, they left. Where they went, what they did, who they lived with – is another story altogether, and it is not meant for us to tell. For it is here we end our tale, their tale, their lives – the tale of this school and its students.

School. Battleground. Lifelong journey.

A&A&A.

**End of the End**

Authoresses' Final Note:

……and after two long years of tears and bloodshed and stress and late nights of sneaking online and thinking it would never end –

– _it's over_.

We could cry.

This is the second major epic we have written in fanfiction, and it will be the last. We're sorry to say we've outgrown fanfic, and that now we're both striking out on our own, individually. Lydia now lives on Fictionpress under the same penname, and after A&A&A she plans to write more chaptered tales. Since this commitment is over, she can now concentrate on her own original fic 'Regimental Blues' and begin her second one, 'Legacy of the Lark'. If you like, you can visit. If not, you won't see her again.

Rukuelle is going to find her catalyst, or rather, wait for it to come around. In the meantime she will take an important exam, and after that she will consider doing something literary.

We have many people we'd like to thank, who have helped us and supported us through the course of this fic – and was it a long one.

_Lydia's Classmates:_

Lydia would like to thank the No. 1 fan of A&A&A, Manveri Mirkiel: who has been loyal, who has reviewed (nearly all) the chapters (four of them thrice) and faithfully fangirled everything. Also Asha Ice; the two of them have stood by Legolas, no matter what horrors were perpetrated upon his person, and their allegiance is touching, if incomprehensible.

Then there is Reicheru, and Lintong, and Sam, and lately Claire – who didn't review, but who said all that needed to be said between classes and such. Lydia loves her classmates, although some of them are classmates no more, and if they were her only fans she would still write for them alone.

_Fanfiction Reviewers:_

These are the people who have brought the review count up to a whopping 543 (which also happens to be consecutive in descending order) and who wrote constructive, funny, touching, beautiful reviews, and stuck with us through two years and all thirty-four chapters.

Sapphire/Garnetian Dragon, who has admired what we do on many counts, sometimes inexplicably, and been very kind. Katatonia, who has been around for almost as long, and who still kept reviewing even after she left for boarding school for a long time. Cerse Liminara, who is by far the oldest reviewer around, who has been skeptical about nearly everything, but in a good way. And Zareen; we confess we find it hard to believe that a single review can be _so long_, let alone every review that she writes. It is indeed remarkable.

People who have been reviewing nearly every chapter, or been reviewing since the beginning of time: L-X-R, gavvie, Mizamour, disneyluver, EvilExpressions, BlueDove, Lee, Elenhin, Akwyn, Ex Igne, Joou Himeko Dah, phylitr, etc.

We would also like to thank our parents, who have refrained from commenting about us wasting time on this. And lastly, we'd like to thank each other. Which is something that should go unsaid, us being sisters, but sometimes it's best to make sure the other one knows.

Well, it's been great. It's been fun, it's been wonderful, and possibly it's been life-changing.

And now, goodbye.


End file.
